Repercussions
by FraidyCat
Summary: Another tag to The Janus List. Oneshot. Twoshot? Summershot?
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Repercussions**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Don't blame it on me.**

**Summary: Another Janus tag, because I must.**

**DON P.O.V**.

The repercussions were astronomical.

Every last case that Granger's name had been connected to would be challenged. Attorneys would already be lining up, trying to get their clients' cases thrown out of court. For those already in prison, there would be demands to release them, and lawsuits claiming false arrest. For the foreseeable future -- well past the end of his own career, probably -- the team would have no time to do anything except reinvestigate closed cases and appear in court defending their earlier actions. Over. And Over. And Over.

Exactly the part of his job he hated the most. He craved the action, the bust; and he barely tolerated the paperwork and the legalities. Thanks. Thanks one hell of a lot, Colby.

Now that he really needed a shrink, Don would be chained to his desk or a witness chair all day long, and unable to see Dr. Bradford. Which was a shame, because he really wanted to ask him how the hell he was supposed to trust anyone on his team again. Megan had come back from her mysterious absence full of secrets and angst, even before Granger's cover was blown. Sinclair was destroyed when his partner became a stranger. Neither one of them could be trusted to watch his back, anymore. And Liz? At least it wasn't a question of trust, with her -- at least Don didn't think so -- but he knew she shouldn't be watching it in the first place. There was a reason agents on the same team weren't supposed to sleep together.

He sat silently on the couch at his brother's house, a black cloud hanging over his head that he had to learn to live with, somehow. It was going to be there forever.

**ALAN P.O.V.**

The repercussions were astronomical.

He stared unseeing at his hands in his lap, and knew he should probably say something. Neither one of the boys was talking, and that was not a good sign.

All he seemed to be able to do, though, was remember last Thanksgiving.

The entire team had been there, along with Amita and Millie. Larry had been hovering somewhere over the house, Colby had joked. Alan could still taste the surprisingly good pumpkin pie the young man had brought. He had made it with eggnog, a recipe he got from his mother. Alan had enjoyed it so much, he had almost begged Colby to share. Granger had just laughed and claimed it was a "family secret", and also his insurance for future Thanksgiving invitations to Casa Eppes.

There would be no eggnog in the pumpkin pie, this year. Federal justice for spies was strict, and swift. There might not even be a Colby Granger by Thanksgiving of this year. Alan shuddered as the thought crossed his mind. He felt vaguely guilty as he wondered if Don would be angry if he sent the man a batch of his favorite oatmeal cookies in prison.

Shit.

He felt disturbingly as if he was losing one of his sons.

**CHARLIE P.O.V.**

The repercussions were astronomical.

Astromomical in a way that even Larry would appreciate, post-space.

Charlie was in a state of denial, and having a difficult time hiding it from his brother. He felt badly for Don. Extremely badly. His sympathies extended to Megan, and David...but he was having an impossible time expressing that sympathy. The mind that was the talk of an entire generation just could not wrap itself around this. It was not possible that this had happened.

Colby was his friend, a converted sinner who used to make fun of him but had grown to brag about his "Whiz Kid" to anyone who dared showed disrespect. Colby picked Charlie's scrawny little butt for his flag football team in the park last winter. Once -- and Don did not even know this -- he and Colby had gotten drunk together after a particularly nasty case that ended badly for everyone.

None of this made sense, the way that the numbers always did. Charlie had been wrong to take his attention away from the numbers. They had never failed him, they had always embraced him. They could be counted on, at all times, to do what they were supposed to.

God, he wanted a piece of chalk.

**COLBY'S P.O.V**.

The repercussions were astronomical.

He sat in the tiny cell and felt like...well, he felt like what he was. A traitor.

He could still see the tears shining in David's eyes, the anger flashing in Don's, the despair that flared in Megan's. He had never meant for this to happen. It was not supposed to be this way.

They had promised him.

He hadn't even seen the Whiz Kid since it all came down. Colby had been whisked off to federal lock-up in the back of a squad car before Charlie got back to the bullpen. He hoped the kid was all-right. He wasn't trained, and hardened, like the rest of them. Not that anybody could be ready for a thing like this.

He stared at the paper shoes on his feet and would have given anything for a pair of shoelaces, or a razor blade, or a sharp knife, or some cyanide. Something. Anything. Damn.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

He banged his head solidly and slowly against the wall.

They had promised him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Repercussions 2**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Don't blame it on me.**

**Summary: Oh, maybe this will turn into a whole Janus story to get us through the summer.**

Colby glared at the man in front of him and didn't give one damn about who the hell he thought he was.

"This was not an extrication," he fumed, beginning to pace in a circle. "I don't know what it was, but you have to fix it. You said nothing like this could ever happen!"

From his position behind the Director now, he could see the man's hands come up in a gesture reminiscent of Pilate washing his hands when the crowd screamed at him to crucify Jesus. Colby stopped abruptly, wondering where his mind had scrabbled up that image. "It can't be 'fixed'." Tompkins was saying. "You left Agent Reeves in a hail of gunfire and tried to steal the witness. How do you expect me to 'fix' that?"

Colby blanched and his knees wobbled. He latched on the chair to his right for support. "I did what? My contact told me there were two. We took down two. There weren't any more."

Bob Tompkins cleared his throat. "There was a break-down in communications, I'm afraid. We sent three."

"Oh, my God." Colby staggered the two feet required to fall into the chair. "Oh, my God. Is she all right?"

Director Tompkins continued talking calmly to the wall while Granger sat behind him. "Yes. She liquidated our assets." He allowed himself a small sigh. "We let him get too far out of our control. The idea was to get you out, debrief you, and get you safely back in after the danger was over. With the reporter missing too, no-one would have questioned a kidnapping cover."

Colby's eyes burrowed into Tompkins' back. "This is the friggin' NSA," he pointed out. "How can you get things so wrong? Have you not done this sort of thing before?" He was up again, pacing to the other end of the room. He whirled to face the Director, having just processed part of what he said. "What are you talking about? Who got out of you control?"

Tompkins held his gaze with a steady, non-blinking stare. "Eppes, of course. You remember your mission, don't you?"

Colby's hands went to his hips. "I completed my mission, dammit. I told you every case he was called in on for the last two years. I reported his involvement on this one."

"Yes. And we moved too late. Believe me, heads will roll over that one. Dr. Eppes cannot be underestimated. He should have been eliminated long before the botched attempt in the hospital."

Colby's mouth gaped and he thought he might hit the floor this time, having no chair to hang onto. He spread his feet a little farther apart and choked. "Hospital? That was Black Rain, and the target was Ashby..."

Bob Tompkins actually laughed. A brief, solitary snort. "Come now, Granger. You never really believed that, did you? The NSA can make it look like anyone did anything. You know how it works."

Colby began to breathe harshly. He was shaking all over. "You tried to kill Charlie. My God, he's one of your own agents!"

"So were the three in the beach house," countered Tompkins dismissively. "One is sometimes sacrificed for the benefit of all." The two stared at each other in silence for a moment. Colby's hatred was palpable, and eventually even Bob Tompkins got defensive. "Look, it's not as if it was an easy decision for me. I've always liked Charlie. But he's too good -- and too generous. He spreads himself around to too many agencies." His eyes flashed with his first hint of emotion. Anger. "Do you have any idea the damage he's done by breaking Ashby's code? My God, man, this is only the beginning!"

Colby's heart was somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. This had seemed like such a generic, easy assignment two years ago. He had grown to love FBI work, his team members...even the Whiz Kid, if he was honest about it. Even Don and Charlie's father Alan had embraced him, providing a comfort he had never known. The entire Idaho farm-boy cover was a farce. Colby was nothing. Abandoned by an alcoholic mother at seven, kicked out of the foster care system at 18, he had no choice but to find someone else to take care of him. A college ROTC agreement and the Marine Corps sounded as good as anything else. When he was recruited by the NSA while still a Marine, there had been no-one to trust, no-one to talk it over with. It sounded like the promise of more roofs over his head and meals in his belly, so he took it. He took it, fell into the family he had always wanted, and now it was over. It was all over. "What am I going to do?", he whispered, mostly to himself.

The Director stood. "There will be an escape, before the court-martial." His tone was businesslike; almost bored. "The NSA has reciprocal agreements with several other nations. You speak passable French, non? It is about to get much better, Monsiour Granger. Or perhaps I should say, 'Gran-g-ier',now!"

Colby looked at him in shock. "You're sending me to France?"

Tompkins tilted his head slightly. "A French-speaking province. When you escape, your contacts will provide all the information you need."

It started in his toes, where his heart had landed. So he guessed it was appropriate that when his blood started boiling, it was there. He felt the bubbles rise through his veins and heat his entire body an inch at a time, and Colby Granger knew more anger than he thought was possible. "I'll tell them," he promised. "I'll warn Charlie. You can't stop them from questioning me."

Tompkins' eyes narrowed. "That would be very foolish, young man. Very foolish. Not to mention pointless. Do you honestly believe we'll have a difficult time making you look like a bitter little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar? You must know the Chinese are already protesting the Janus list, in its entirety. They've never heard of you, but they will kill you anyway, just in case you really are a spy. The relocation is a gift. We could just as easily send you to China."

It was Colby's turn to laugh. "You can't threaten me. I've got nothing to lose, anymore."

Tompkins glanced at his watch. "Right about now, he's in the faculty library researching a problem for his graduate seminar. Such a creature of habit, our Dr. Eppes."

Before Colby could find his voice again, there was a rap on the door and it swung open, revealing another nameless, faceless, clueless NSA agent. "It's time to transport him back, Director."

Tompkins smiled. "Yes. Do so. I hate having trash in my office."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Repercussions 3**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Don't blame it on me.**

**Summary: Oh, maybe this will turn into a whole Janus story to get us through the summer.**

A contingent from the FBI, the CIA and Homeland Security were given access to Monsiour Granger.

One joint questioning session was arranged before Colby Granger was transported by the NSA to Leavenworth. It was during that transport, he knew now, that he would "escape".

He was not told who to expect in the bright interrogation room, and as he was led in, his steps short, clipped, shackled -- he was surprised to see Don, Megan. Even David. The FBI by far had the largest representation of agents in the room; He recoginzed Martel and Simmons, who specialized in this sort of thing. Merrick was overseeing his group. Maybe Colby's team...well, his former team...maybe they were there as victims, not as agents.

Colby did not allow the relief he felt at seeing Megan in one piece show on his face. He couldn't look at David at all. He knew this would be a brief questioning, since he didn't intend to say a word. Director Tompkins was also in the room, ready to yank him out at the slightest provocation.

He stood between two guards, one on each side of his handcuffed wrists, and allowed himself to meet Don's eyes. God, the hatred. The betrayal. Colby swallowed and turned on the performance. "What? No Whiz Kid?" His eyes skittered around the room. "Charlie works for at least two of these agencies. Surely one of you could have shared a little of the fun."

Don bolted up from a chair on his side of the table, a blur of movement that drew Colby's gaze again. At least two people were holding him back. The hatred and betrayal in his eyes was replaced by pure fire. "Charlie is none of your damn business, Granger. Don't worry about Charlie."

Colby didn't flinch, but tried to convey a message with his eyes. _Please, Don. Please understand. Charlie is not safe._

Don impatiently shook off the hands that restrained him and broke eye contact. He turned slightly and aimed his next words at Director Merrick. "I want out," he demanded, surprising everyone in the room who had ever even heard of him. "This asshole isn't going to say anything anyway. This is a waste of time. Either let me kill him, or let me out."

Colby swallowed again, knowing that Don Eppes was not exaggerating. Left to his own devices for even a few seconds, Colby Granger would be a dead man.

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Charlie regarded his brother's sullen face over the pizza. "You're sure this is all right? We could order Chinese, or find some righteous leftovers of Dad's in the freezer..."

Don raised a bottle of beer to his mouth, took a deep drag and slammed it back onto the table. "I said pizza was fine; it's fine, dammit."

Charlie set his own slice carefully onto his plate. "So," he said, awkwardly, "Dad called. Aunt Ida is better."

"Umphf." The comment was unintelligible. Aunt Ida was a little annoying, but she was their father's sister, and a stroke at her age could be serious. Charlie pushed a little harder. "It's good that she moved to San Diego last year, to be near Cousin Karen."

"Damn cheese isn't even melted."

Charlie sighed, gingerly picked up a tomato and dislodged a green pepper hiding beneath it. He hated green pepper on pizza. He had only ordered that for Don. He had been a little surprised to find his brother's SUV in the driveway when he got home. Don knew that Dad was out of town and there would be no impressive home-cooked meal that evening. But he must have come here for a reason, and Charlie, for one, was tired of trying to pry it out of him.

"Tompkins called me last night," he informed his brother, deciding the time for pulling punches was over. "He wanted me to be there today. When you all questioned Colby. I also got a call from Timmons at Homeland Security. I confess I was expecting to go there as part of the FBI group, if I went at all."

_That_ got Don's attention off the kitchen table. He looked up at Charlie and his eyes flashed anger. "Leave it alone. Just leave it alone, Chuck."

Frustrated, Charlie pushed back his chair and stood. He crossed to the refrigerator and opened the door. Standing in front of it, he let the frigid air blast him in the face. "I'm part of it, Don. Why can't you see that? We should be helping each other here, not pretending it never happened!" He backed up a step and slammed the door, pivoting slightly to look at his brother.

The disgust on Don's face was less than comforting. "You're _not_ part of it, Charlie, not really. You don't have any idea. You just visit, belch out a few theories and leave. You don't know what it's like to depend on someone to watch your back and then find out he could have put a bullet in it at any time over the last two years."

Charlie staggered back a little as if the blow had been physical. A visitor? _A visitor?_ Belch out a few theories and leave? He had wanted Don to talk, but he hadn't thought he would be his brother's target. The back of his eyes stung as he stared at Don, hurt. "Fine," he whispered, pivoting again to push through the swinging door into the house proper. "Enjoy the fucking pizza."

He didn't register Don's soft, full-of-regret, "Charlie...". The two syllables did not enter his consciousness at all, on the other side of the door.

Mostly because Colby Granger had stepped out of the shadows and knocked him out with one punch, catching him before he hit the floor.

Quietly, Colby dragged him to a corner of the dark dining room, and gagged him. Then he used Don's handcuffs, which he had found on a side table in the living room -- along, thankfully, with his service weapon -- to secure Charlie to a table leg. Stealthily, he finished dousing all the lights that were lit on the ground floor and crept back into the dining room.

Don was next.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: Repercussions 4**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Don't blame it on me.**

**NOTE -- because everyone who asks in anonymous, so I can't reply to you: Recall that in Ch. 1 Tompkins referred to an arranged, planned, fake escape. That is how Colby could manage to break away: He was set free, essentially. That is also why all other agencies (including FBI) have been kept in the dark, so far, regarding the escape. The whole NSA point was for Colby to end up in a French-speaking province, not get nabbed at an airport first...**

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Don drained the beer and waited for Charlie to storm back into the kitchen ready to get into it with him. He still had a couple of insults saved up, because what he had really wanted all day long, was a fight. A no-holds-barred, say-things-you-don't-mean, come-as-close-as-you-can-to-going-over-the-line FIGHT. It was unfair to pick on Charlie as his unwilling sparring partner -- but that was kind-of the entire point, wasn't it? Don had a visceral need to be unfair, and he had more practice fighting down-and-dirty with Charlie than anybody else. It was a plus that their Dad was not here to break it up before it started. Most importantly, he was counting on his little brother's ridiculous, gigantic heart. Charlie would forgive him for not fighting fair, Charlie would understand where his frustration was coming from, and Charlie would somehow make him feel better.

The pizza, which had arrived cold in the first place, congealed on his plate and the beer stood empty, and Don began to question a few of his assumptions. Son of a bitch. He hadn't meant to do any permanent damage, He was just getting started! He felt a little guilty, remembering Charlie's words: _"I'm part of this too";_ Obviously, he had been too wrapped up in his own anger and pain to notice that Charlie had been upset on a deep, "P vs. NP" level. Now he had to go track the kid down and make it right, somehow. He sighed and stood heavily. He never even got his damn fight. He pushed halfway through the swinging door and paused. "Charlie?" The entire first floor was dark, and he started to back up and go out to the garage. Charlie must have stormed through the front door of the house and walked all the way around, just to avoid him.

At the same time that he noticed a faint glow floating down the stairs from the second floor, the hairs on Don's arm stood up and saluted. Definite hinky alarm. Maybe Charlie was sulking up in his room? Don took another step forward and began to grope for the light switch on the wall as soon as he was clear of the door. A hand clamped around his wrist, and he jerked back, instantly fighting for his life. That was not his brother's touch.

He fought blind, and he fought hard. At one point, his fist connected solidly with someone's face, and he felt the skin split between his knuckles. He heard an oddly famliar grunt, and launched his body into the air, willing it to follow his fist and take the other man down. The two hit the dining room floor in a tangle of twisted limbs and one of the straight-back chairs. Wood groaned and then splintered beneath them, and Don felt a sudden, sharp pain when something impaled itself in his side.

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Charlie lifted his head, which seemed a lot heavier than it should, and turned it slightly toward the sounds he could hear. It was dark, but he could make out the blurred form of a man holding a penlight between his teeth, bent over someone else on the floor. His head ached, his jaw throbbed, and he clenched his eyes closed again and moaned into the gag. He registered a scrambling noise, and then felt hot breath on his face.

"Charlie," hissed Colby. "I've got to get you outta here. You with me?"

Charlie's head jerked up fast, setting off a new round of fireworks that swayed him back as far as the handcuffs around the table leg would let him go. His eyes opened wide in unbelief and fear. Colby?

The former agent grinned at him tensely. "Atta boy, Whiz Kid. Pull it together."

Colby Granger?

Where was Don?

Charlie groaned into the gag again, and let his eyes travel back in the other direction. It was impossible to tell in the dark, but that lump on the floor couldn't be a good thing.

Colby followed his eyes and frowned briefly. "That was an accident. The chair splintered, and part of the wood..."

As Charlie's eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, he could just barely make out something protruding from the still figure, and his eyes grew rounder and more panicked. He ignored his pounding head and jerked his cuffed hands against the table leg. "Ahhhhhhhhh", he ground into the gag. It was as close to "Don" as he could get.

Colby laid a hand on his shoulder and Charlie shrank back. Granger looked at him sadly. "I'll call somebody, when...I don't know. Later. Maybe your Dad will come home and find him?"

Charlie shook his head, immediately regretting it and nearly throwing up into the gag. Colby's grip on his shoulder tightened, and he spoke lowly, and urgently. "Charlie, you've got to listen. Tompkins is bad. Maybe the whole friggin' NSA is infected, by now, I'm not sure. But I know about Tompkins. The hospital attempt on Ashby? They were really going after you. You're not safe."

Charlie breathed hard behind the gag, looking back at Colby as if he was crazy, and the former agent rattled on almost defensively. "Look, I can prove that he's bad. You think this is the first time he's strayed from protocol?" He snickered. "Come on, Whiz Kid, you know me better than that. I'm always going to have my own back. I've got numbers, recordings." His voice took on a pleading tone. "I just have to get you somewhere safe, where we can lay low for a few days." Colby's back was turned to Don, and he had posiioned his body in such a way that Charlie couldn't see his brother, anymore. Terrified, distrusting eyes were glued on his former friend. Neither man saw the slight movement of Don's hand and ankle meeting as the agent went for his back-up piece, struggling not to cry out in agony with every tiny movement.

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He had waited, crouched behind the couch in the living room, throughout the entire fight between Granger and the FBI agent.

He had been startled at first, not knowing what was going on. He at first assumed that the Director had sent two operatives out on this job, determined not to fail again. He had been about to steal up the stairs when the melee broke out, and he dropped where he stood instead. He had not been briefed that another operative would be here, so chances were that the other guy hadn't, either. If he was discovered, he was as good as dead.

About the same time he began wondering why the other operative did not wear night vision goggles, the snarling duo wrestled into a spot that revealed the other operative to be Colby Granger. He made a soft, undetected noise of surprise and sat back on his heels. Granger was supposed to be in Leavenworth. There had not been so much as a whisper of any escape, and the knowledge made him nervous.

So nervous, that he maintained his position in the living room for a while after the fight abruptly ended, and allowed Granger to approach the target, who was already secured, unconcious, to the dining room table. Granger had obviously been here a while. As he crept silently forward and listened, he found himself confronted with a decision. If Granger was telling the truth, Tompkins was as twisted and dangerous as he had always suspected, and it was a good thing he had some insurance of his own stashed away. On the other hand, no more powerful man existed than Bob Tompkins. If he presented him with the original target, plus Granger and his "proof", he should be able to write his own ticket. It turned out that it wasn't really that difficult of a decision.

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Don huffed out short, pained breaths through his nose and almost squeezed one off into Granger's back.

At the last second, he hesitated, unsure where Charlie was behind the shadow. His hand began to shake as Colby's words floated and bounced off the walls of the dining room. Don tried to hang onto consciousness and make sense out of them, but it was a diffult task. He sensed movement as Granger suddenly turned, one hand awkwardly trailing behind him, his body firmly and completely shielding Charlie. "You don't want to do this," Colby growled in a low voice, pressing a handcuff key into the confused mathematician's hand.

At first Don assumed Colby was addressing him. He tried to lift his own hand and weapon again, and put some fire into his voice, but before he gathered enough breath to speak, all hell broke loose.

It all seemed to happen at the same time. A high-caliber, silenced semi-automatic crept around the wall that separated the dining room and the living room, also trained on Granger. A panicked, "Don!", alterted him to the slight, scrambling form of what had to be his brother. Granger, in an off-balance squat to begin with, was thrust into a fall by a suddenly-freed Charlie. Crawling for Don, the professor didn't make it to his feet before the semi-auto discharged with a _ping_. In the tiny explosion of light that followed, Don clearly recognized Charlie's expression of pure shock as the bullet tore into his flesh and lifted him off the floor, slamming him into the back wall of the dining room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: Repercussions 5**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Don't blame it on me.**

David stood in front of his post office box and stared at the large manilla envelope as if it were an enemy.

Perhaps Merrick had been right to insist he take some time off. Apparently, he was losing his mind.

"T. Prescott" in Huntsville, Alabama was a complete stranger to him. He had no idea what was in the envelope, and yet when he had first seen it his heart had leaped in his chest. He had been positive the bold, felt-pen scribble of the address was in Colby's handwriting.

But that was ridiculous.

David shifted uneasily and glanced around him, suddenly feeling as if everyone else in the post office at that hour was there just to stare at him.

It was ridiculous -- wasn't it?

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From his position on the floor, Colby completely missed Charlie's assailant, who had quickly decided that everyone in the house must go. No witnesses. Ever. He was congratulating himself on his stealth when the round from Don Eppes' .357 took off half his head.

His suddenly-dead body would have fallen directly on top of the agent if Don hadn't gritted his teeth and started moving as soon as he fired. He clutched his weapon with his right hand, gently cupped the chair sticking out of his gut with his left, and labored to his feet. Colby was already kneeling over Charlie when Don arrived in the back corner. "Charlie," he hissed, grunting as he lowered himself back to the floor. "Charlie..."

Charlie had slid down the wall and slumped to the floor, and Colby had both hands pressed to his -- God, Don saw with shock -- pressed to his chest. Even in the darkness of the dining room he could detect the liquid that had to be his brother's blood seeping out through Granger's fingers.

Colby glanced briefly at him. "It's bad. My kit is in your Dad's chair. Serious first aid supplies Combat issue. I was going to hide in the woods for a few days, with Charlie..." He looked back at the younger man, and pressed a little harder on the wound. "Dammit, I knew they'd come after him again!" Don moved as if to get up, and Colby spoke again. "You shouldn't be moving. Let me."

Don ignored him. This time he left his weapon on the floor and used his hand to push himself up. "Don't let go of him. Don't."

Colby hung his head so that his voice became harder to hear. "Don't hit the lights," he ordered his former team leader. "There could be more of them."

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Charlie had sounded a little stressed, and looked harried, when she had talked to him earlier. Amita was concerned. What had happened with Colby Granger would never have been easy, but it was unfortunate timing that Charlie was in the middle of finals. The poor man didn't have a spare moment to digest his meals, let alone deal with something major like that. She knew he was worried about Don, too; especially now that their father had been called away for a few days. Both sons counted on Alan to hold them together more than they realized.

She glanced at the small sack on the passenger seat, and hoped the ice cream didn't melt before she got to the house. Even for Los Angeles, they were having a streak of unseasonably hot weather. She shook her head slightly. Of course. When else would her old car decide to give up its air conditioning altogether?

Ice cream might be silly, but she was bringing it anyway. Charlie loved mint chocolate chip, it was hotter than hell, and he probably hadn't eaten without Alan there to remind him. Amita had wanted to meet him for lunch, but their schedules did not mesh on Thursdays. Mostly, the ice cream was extraneous. She really just wanted to spend some time with Charlie and...help him relax.

Alone in the car, she still blushed, imagining how they could put that ice cream to good use.

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Alan was disgruntled. Neither son answered his cell, and now the machine at the house was picking up. "Charlie." His voice betrayed the stress of the day. "I wish you would answer your damn cell phone. I left in such a hurry yesterday, I drove off without my wallet. Karen is moving Ida to her apartment tomorrow when she gets out of the hospital, so she'll need the spare room. I want to stay nearby for a few days to make sure everything is under control. I need my VISA...my driver's license probably wouldn't be a bad idea. either. I really need you to overnight that wallet, son. Please call me when you get this message -- I'll keep trying your damn cell."

Alan either did not say "good-bye", or the machine clicked off before he could, and his voice abruptly ended. It had been a surrealistic experience for Don, hearing it echo in the dark house, while he ignored the pole in his side and handed things to Colby out of his kit. Granger was using his penlight, now, and Don was nearly sick when he saw the copious amount of blood that the wavering light revealed. Humans didn't have that much blood, did they? His eyes studied every move Granger made, as he lifted his hands off the wound long enough to rip open a small packet of powder and sprinkle it over Charlie's exposed chest. When Colby had ripped open his shirt, revealing the charred hole just below Charlie's left collarbone, Don had been sick. Congealed undigested pizza now mixed with B-positive all over the dining room floor.

Leaning away from his brother to gag had driven the splinter deeper into his own side, and Don had moved to rip it out. Somehow, Granger had seen him. "Leave that alone," he ordered. "Take it out now and you could bleed to death." Deciding that option would not be a great help to Charlie, Don moaned and did as he was told.

Now there was a pressure bandage on Charlie's chest. Don didn't know how much good it was doing. It seemed to be soaking up blood at an unbelievable rate, and he stared at it in open-mouth horror. He didn't even realize his fist was clenched in Charlie's hair. Colby sat back a little on his heels, lifting bloody hands to wipe at his face. As he got close, the coppery smell served as a reminder, and he used the back of his arm, instead. He watched Charlie for a few moments, frowning, and then looked at Don. He flashed the penlight on the fair amount of blood that soaked Don's shirt from the wound in his side, and his frown became deeper. "I have to secure the house," he said. "Neither one of you guys can be moved."

Don kept his eyes on Charlie and tried to figure out why Colby Granger was trying to help them; and who had tried to kill them. "You're a spy," he said, dumbly, and Colby snorted.

He climbed to his feet and began to move cautiously. "Yeah. But I'm not an idiot, Don."


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: ****Repercussions 6**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Pay attention. Nothing pisses me off more than having to repeat myself.**

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Colby was holding the penlight between his teeth again, rummaging through his first aid kit. At length, he brought out another pressure bandage, and Don stretched out a hand toward Charlie. Colby slapped it aside like a mosquito. "Dnnnnn," he said, then repeated himself after he removed the flashlight from his mouth. "Don't take the first one off. If it's clotting under there that'll screw everything up. Just put this one on top of it, and apply some more pressure. Can you do that?"

Don reached out and grabbed one side of the bandage. "I got it," he hissed.

Colby hesitated, and didn't let go of the bandage. "Look," he finally said, apologetically. "Gimme your cell phone, first."

Don's grip on the bandage relaxed and he looked in surprise at Granger. "What?"

Colby shrugged. "Sorry. I've got to leave you here to double-check the upstairs and get some towels, maybe a blanket…. I can't let you call for help. I should've done this before I checked the kitchen door. I saw Charlie's cell charging on the counter. I need yours."

"You sick son of a bitch," Don bit out bitterly, unforgivably angry with himself for not thinking of using the cell when he had the chance. What the hell was wrong with him, anyway? First he let a double agent work on his team undetected for two years, and now apparently his brain had leaked out of the hole in his side. He vented some anger on Granger. "He could be dying. Just take what you want and get the hell out of here. Let me get him some help, dammit!"

In the dim light, Colby's eyes actually looked sad. "Don, I'm sorry. We can't trust anyone right now. Tompkins has people everywhere, moles in every organization. If L.A. county dispatch puts out a 9-1-1 call for this address…. Well, you might as well just kill him yourself."

Bits and pieces began to float around Don, just out of reach. "Tompkins?" He struggled to understand. "Bob Tompkins? What the hell are you talking about?"

Colby thrust the bandage at him again. "Look, there's no time for this right now. You're right – he could be dying. Give me the cell and take this. As soon as David gets his mail, we can get Charlie some help."

Don unclipped his cell from his belt and shoved it at Granger. He was starting to think he must have a head injury, in addition to lugging his father's antiques around in his kidney. "David's mail?", he repeated, taking the bandage and placing it directly over the other one. He leaned forward a little on his knees, painfully, so he could apply a decent amount of pressure to his brother's chest.

Granger started to stand. "I set it up over a year ago, with a buddy from the war. If he ever saw my name in lights, he had a package to drop in the mail. I sent him an updated disk every month. Go ahead, you won't hurt him."

Don tried to take a deep breath, instantly regretted it, and almost fell onto Charlie. Finally, he placed his hands in the proper position and pressed down. "I don't understand," he said. "What kind of updates?" Before Colby could answer, Charlie let out a loud and unexpected gasp, his eyes flew open and his hands came up to push at Don, who fell back in dismay. "Oh, shit. What did I do? Oh, shit!"

Colby lowered himself back to the floor and leaned over Charlie, still talking to Don. "This is good. Response to pain stimuli and all that. Get your hands back on that bandage." Granger grabbed at Charlie's fluttering hands. "Whiz Kid. You're all right. You're all right. Take it easy."

Charlie tried weakly to pull his hands away. "S-s-stop," he groaned, glaring at Colby. "Not all…all right. Some…somebod…shot…Ahhh, G-G-G-God!"

Don nearly cried out himself, listening to his brother's agony. Shaking hands pressing into Charlie's chest, he ignored the pain in his own side and leaned his face as close to Charlie's as he could. "Relax, Charlie, just relax, Buddy. I gotcha, Don's gotcha…."

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Amita looked in dismay at the mint chocolate chip dripping off the passenger seat. She had been an idiot to get the ice cream on her side of the city; she should have waited until she got to that small convenience store about a mile from the Eppes house. She was going to end up there anyway.

Her eyes searched the side of the road. How could it still be this hot when it was dark, already? It must be past 10 o'clock, for pity's sake.

She sighed, clenching the steering wheel in sweaty palms. She was sure there was a car wash around here somewhere. Maybe she would just drive through with the windows down. Arriving at Charlie's house in a wet t-shirt might prove even more of a distraction than ice cream.

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Don couldn't decide if he was relieved Charlie was conscious again, or worried. He was still leaning over him, applying pressure to the wound, and he could feel his heart racing under his hands. Breathing shallowly, Charlie had settled with one of his own hands resting loosely on Don's arm, and he tried to focus on its warmth.

Colby had departed for the second floor of the Eppes house, and Charlie waited until he could no longer hear footsteps on the stairs. He tried to exert some pressure on Don's arm, but he was pathetically weak. "S-s-side?", he gasped.

Don looked at him in concern. "Are you hit somewhere else?" He let his eyes roam over Charlie's body, his eyes finally somewhat adjusted to the dark. "Damn, Buddy, I didn't even look…."

"N-n-No," breathed Charlie. He could only seem to talk with each exhale, and he limited his conversation as much as he could. "Y-y-yours."

Don concentrated on his hands over the wound and felt tears at the back of his eyes. So Charlie. Lying in the dark with a bullet in his chest, possibly bleeding out, held hostage by an agent for the Chinese – and worried about Don. "It's fine," he finally answered gruffly. "A scratch. When Dad gets home, I'm telling him you broke the chair."

Charlie's lips curled in an attempted smile, but he pulled off only a grimace. "J-j-jerk." He managed three syllables with his next exhale. "T-tompkins b-b-bad?"

Don thought the flow of blood was lessening a little. Please, God. He looked at Charlie. "That's what Colby says." He snorted a little. "He's not lying about people trying to kill you, we know that. He says he has some kind of proof about Tompkins, that David will get it in the mail."

Charlie's grip tightened a little and his eyes closed. "H-h-hurts. G-g-god…"

Don almost cried, again. "I know. I'm sorry, Buddy. As soon as David…." A thought raced through his mind and he jerked, eliciting a groan from Charlie that he almost didn't hear over his own "Shit!"

Eyes open again and full of fear, Charlie looked at his brother. "M'I…dead?"

Don hung his head, unable to look at him. "Sorry, I'm sorry. Dammit, Charlie, Merrick forced David to take some time. He tore half the office apart when we got back from the federal lock-up this morning. He's on his way to Big Bear, for at least a week!"

Charlie was silent for a moment, digesting this news, at length elicting an understatement. "N-n-not g-g-good…."

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It was probably because Ida was his only sister, and he was upset about the stroke.

Even though doctors said the damage wasn't bad, and she would even be able to live on her own again in a few months; still, it had been stressful. Karen had never been a strong girl, and she had not handled things well. So he had to be the supportive brother and the strong uncle, and, damn, it really made no sense that Alan felt so…frightened. He had talked to the doctor himself. Ida was in good spirits, and arrangements were made for a nurse to make home visits to Karen's apartment. If worse came to worse, and Charlie didn't get his message in time to overnight his wallet, he was sure he could borrow some money from his niece. Or call Stan, even, and have him wire some. Probably should have done that in the first place.

True, it was no accident that he and Margaret had produced a law enforcement officer. Alan always liked to be on the right side of the law, and it did bother him to be without his driver's license. But it shouldn't scare the absolute hell out of him, and make him feel like his heart was going to burst out of his chest.

He shook himself, a little. No, this made no sense, but so much about being a father didn't. He was prepared to admit it. At this very moment, he was almost breathless with fear for his sons.


	7. Chapter 7

T**itle: Repercussions 7**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Pay attention. Nothing pisses me off more than having to repeat myself.**

**A/N: It's summer. There are 24 hours in every day, and I have 28 scheduled. I'm stressed. I decided to make "Repercussions" my "kitchen sink" story; every plot I ever briefly considered will end up in here somewhere. One thing I will NOT do (since I have done it so may times before), is kill Amita. Rather, I will give the girl a good swift kick in the personality, and make her more deserving of the fine Doctor.**

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The sound of a body thumping down the stairs whipped Don around faster than he could think.

Instinct. Instinct told him in millliseconds exactly what the noise was, that he was unarmed, and that his back was exposed to an open area. Unfortunately, instinct neglected to remind him that sudden movement was currently unwise, and as he swung his torso around, he lost his balance in a wave of pain unlike anything he had ever felt before. He cried out, his protests mixing with Charlie's. The younger Eppes was both frightened by the blur of movement and the sound, and physically pushed over the edge again as Don's hands pushed off his chest. Charlie was thoroughly unconscious by the time Don fell over. He was unable to appreciate the fact that his brother had managed to move far enough so that he landed on Charlie's legs rather than on his upper half. Thankfully, he was also unable to see Don's hand automatically reach the source of his pain and rip it blindly from his side.

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David stood uncertainly over a 32-gallon trash receptacle in the lobby of the post office. The manilla envelope dangled from two fingers, about to drop.

He hesitated.

So he didn't know this Prescott. That didn't necessarily mean the envelope was junk mail. Direct-mail afficiondos seldom paid excessive overnight postage rates. Plus, what with his partner and best friend turning out to be a Chinese spy, David was understandably seeing shadows and conspiracies everywhere. He could drop this envelope and it would blow up, taking all of these innocent people along for the ride. "Son of a mother-humpin' bitch," he finally hissed, uncharacteristically. He rubbed his free hand over his bald, sweaty head and carefully backed away from the trash can. He walked backwards twenty feet over the lobby floor, the envelope still gripped between two fingers and held awkwardly in front of him, until his calf bumped into a bench he suddenly remembered was there. He sat down, hard, and started talking to himself. "I should call this in. Have the bomb squad come out here with their x-ray machine."

If he had experienced any aspect of a normal day, David never would have said that out loud before noticing that he was not alone on the bench.

"LORDY!", screeched the tiny woman on the other end of the bench, already frazzled by all the "Second Notice" stamps on her own stack of mail. The envelopes scattered all over the floor as she vaulted off the bench, screaming at the top of her lungs. "BOMBER! BOMBER! LORD HAVE MERCY, WE'S ALL A'GONNA DIE!!!"

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"I'm sorry," Alan muttered miserably into his cell. "I probably interrupted something."

Megan bit back a sigh. How she wished that was true. She could use a small something to interrupt about now — not that she was implying Larry was…small. _Au, contraire,_ she sulked. "No, Alan," she finally answered glumly. "The monestary didn't offer enough seclusion for Larry. He rented a car and is driving down the coast to find some caves he read about."

Alan was momentarily nonplussed. "Did you say 'caves'?"

Megan's smile was wry, although Alan couldn't see it. "Yes. It's actually some kind of esoteric little...lodging facility. Very bare bones. Group meals over a campfire."

Alan grunted. Larry had been a friend of the family for years, since Charlie's Princeton days -- but sometimes, he wished that man would get his head out of his... Poor Megan could use someone a little more down-to-earth right now. And Larry no longer had the excuse of literally not being on it, so it was time for him to show up for the party. His ruminations distracted him enough that he missed several inquiries from Megan. Her voice had actually begun to become a little irritated when he finally caught an, "Alan!"

Guiltily, he hastened to catch up. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be bothering you, this is silly. It's just that I can't get either of the boys to answer their phones, and no-one is picking up at the house. But it could be anything."

Megan remembered for the first time Don mentioning that Alan had been called out of town. She frowned. "I don't know, Alan. I'd think they would want to be available in case you need something." As she said the words, a thought occurred to her and she hurried on before he could respond. "Do you need something?"

"I'm all-right," he assured her. "I mean, I started calling them because I drove off without my wallet. I wanted Charlie to overnight it. But Stan's wiring me some money, so that's taken care of. I just have...a terrible feeling."

She was silent, and Alan's voice took on an apologetic tone. "You see? I told you it was silly. I shouldn't have called. It's just..."

Megan's voice was gentle. "What, Alan?"

"Well, the last time I felt this way was 25 years ago. Donnie walked Charlie home from school every day. One afternoon I was near the elementary school about an hour after Don should have gotten there from the junior high. I'd been inspecting a building nearby... Anyway, I felt exactly like I do now. Wrong. Just wrong. So I swung by the school. I got there just as Charlie was kicking and screaming and fighting some guy who was trying to pull him into an old, beat-up Chevy. I've always suspected that incident is at the root of his nightmares, although he claims not to remember it clearly. Turned out Don was kept in detention that day for fighting, and he was late. Charlie was waiting." His voice wavered, and tears threatened. "Dear God, Megan, I still have nightmares myself about what could have happened if I'd ignored my feeling."

Megan had already slipped on some shoes, and now struggled one-handed to unlock the drawer in which she stored her service weapon when she was off-duty. "Instinct," she said, businesslike. "Follow your gut. Don had to get that somewhere, Alan. I'm on my way."

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Don opened his eyes to find himself flat on his back, a worried Colby hovering over him, pressing a towel into his side. In the watery light offered by a flashlight propped on the dining room hutch, Granger watched his eyes slip in and out of focus. "Damn, Don," he reprimanded softly. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Don blinked up at him, confused. "Doing? I did something?" His voice sounded pathetically weak, even to his own ears.

Colby glanced away from him briefly to look at Charlie, then met Don's eyes again. "Self-surgery," he answered. "Ripped that pesky little splinter right outta there. You've lost a lot of blood, but I think it's slowing down."

Don's eyes widened as a flash of memory hit. "Charlie?" He tried to move under Granger's hands, but didn't get very far; just far enough to tear a groan out of him. "God. Charlie."

"Take it easy," Colby insisted. "He's still with us. I found somebody upstairs. I recognized him as a pro from the NSA. Right before I broke his neck."

Don gulped in a breath. "Why did you do that?"

His voice was shaking, and Colby shrugged in the half-light. "Well, the .44 may have influenced my decision. When I searched him at the bottom of the stairs, I found a picture of Charlie. He was here to take him out...so I guess you say it was instinct."


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: Repercussions 8**

**Author: Fraidy Cat**

**Disclaimer: I swear, if you ask me that ONE MORE TIME, I will scream.**

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Megan was more than halfway to the Eppes house when the cell almost vibrated off the passenger seat. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and turned down the surround-sound stereo. Although she didn't usually mix cell phones and driving, she reached out sideways and snagged it, thinking it might be Don or Charlie returning her call. She brought the display into her line of vision and saw David's name, instead.

She frowned, confused. They weren't on-call that night. In fact David, as far as she knew, was several hundred miles away by now, on a Merrick-ordered retreat. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, she hit the turn signal and guided her car toward the curb with one hand while she flipped open the cell with the other. "David?"

"Oh, thank God. Megan."

Well she certainly hadn't expected to hear _that_ from the normally unflappable David Sinclair. The whole _your-partner-is-a-spy_ thing was really getting to him. "What's up? Car trouble?"

"I need you to come to the post office substation on Lexington. LAPD is trying to arrest me."

She was extremely glad she had decided to pull over, as she felt her eyes widen in disbelief. "_What?_"

David sounded harassed, angry, at the end of a very short rope. "Somebody turned me in for making a bomb threat. Look, I'll explain when you get here. Just hurry."

"Got it." Megan slammed the cell shut, threw it in the general direction of the passenger seat and made a U-turn into traffic without even checking her mirror, first.

The whole damn team was falling apart.

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Amita found an old towel in the trunk and used it to scrub at the melted ice cream all over the passenger side of her front seat. Some of it was dry, already, and she soon found the sticky undertaking to be more than she had bargained for.

She leaned into the car, arms aching, and felt the sweat roll down her back. Great. What was she going to do about that? Sure, she had truly wanted Charlie to enjoy the ice cream, and that could be replaced easily enough. Yet she definitely had an ulterior motive all along, hoping he was extremely…grateful…for her thoughtfulness. It wasn't like there were rent-a-shower facilities anywhere in the city — unless she spent a couple of hundred bucks on a hotel room that she would never use. But how sexy was her little curly-topped stud muffin going to find a smelly, pissed-off….

Whoa. Back-up.

What was that about the hotel room?

There were possibilities there, she began to muse…but then she sighed. By the time she got ahold of Charlie and arranged to meet him somewhere, the night would be over. He must be in the garage under his iPod, ignoring the vibrating phone on his hip, anyway. He hadn't answered when she had called earlier, and she knew he was home tonight.

She blew damp, stringy hair off her forehead and scrubbed a little harder.

Best to stick with the original plan.

Alan wasn't home. Perhaps she could talk Charlie into joining her in the shower.

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Don lay with his hand clenched in the fabric of Charlie's jeans, which he could barely reach. His head was turned toward his brother and he was watching Colby lightly lay his fingers along Charlie's carotid artery. "Is he okay?", he begged, frightened.

"Sure," Colby answered briefly, moving to check on Don's wound. "How 'bout yourself?"

The fact that Colby offered no other details coupled with his refusal to meet Don's eyes, even in the dark, scared the absolute friggin' hell out of him. He clutched at the material more tightly. "Why are people trying to kill my brother?", he demanded, plaintive.

"Don't move around," Colby ordered softly, gently dropping Don's torn t-shirt back into place. "This thing's being a bitch about clotting. Can't you order it to stop bleeding, or something?" He smiled as he leaned up against the hutch, and it tore at Don's heart. The team leader had been so betrayed, and angry, since the revelation about Colby. He had been confronted with the responsibility of trying to look out for David; and he tried to pull Megan out of the dangerous depression in which she had returned from her mysterious assignment. He realized suddenly that he had not faced his own pain. God, he missed Colby.

He blinked a few times, thinking, and Colby sighed. "Long story short," his former teammate began. "I've only been to Idaho on reconnaissance visits, to make my cover believable. I was ROTC in college, and served in Aghanistan directly after that. When it was time for my tour of duty to end, my buddy DeWayne – you remember DeWayne – he had a proposition for me. Introduced me to Tompkins." He shook his head and laughed, suddenly. "Want to know something? I was so clueless, I didn't even think that was unusual until after I met Charlie. I thought the Director of the National Security Agency always got up-close and personal with his recruits. One day I heard you and Charlie talking in the break room. You were stunned to learn that he knew Tompkins, called him by his first name, even, and I started to get a little nervous about the arrangement we made." He looked hard at Don, his eyes glaring even in the near-darkness. "I don't work for the damn Chinese. Never did. Tompkins said that was part of my cover. He promised nothing like this could ever happen. Shit, Eppes, the Chinese probably want me dead as much as Tompkins does, right now."

In spite of the seriousness of their situation, Don felt a surge of hope rise within him. "Proof?", he whispered.

Colby nodded, and looked at Charlie again. "Yeah. I got my assignments directly from Tompkins, and reported only to him. About a year ago, I started wearing a wire to all of our meetings." He snorted. "Damn system cost me almost $25,000.00. I couldn't exactly requisition it from the NSA or the FBI now, could I? I'll bet you thought I volunteered for all that overtime out of the goodness of my heart." Don didn't answer, and Colby sighed again, and leaned his head back against the hutch. "Anyway. He incriminated himself badly enough to join me at Leavenworth the first meeting after I started wearing the wire. Unfortunately, so did I. I couldn't think of a way out, and I wasn't hurting anybody – that's what I kept telling myself. I don't know what I thought he was doing with the information I fed him. I knew I was as good as dead earlier this year, when we worked that murder you almost fired me over. The one where that guy from my old unit…well, you know. During the investigation, I kept tripping over things that pointed to me. Me, Don. I had to cover up information being planted by some other Tompkins recruit. Somewhere along the way, he had decided he didn't trust me, either."

"Mail?" Don was having difficulty stringing together syllables, but at least his breathing was easier than Charlie's. His brother was starting to wheeze, still unconscious, and he cocked his head at him again.

Colby noticed the change, too. He heaved himself to his knees to crawl back toward the mathematician. "Yeah," he answered, distracted. "David should get some DVDs and jump drive back-ups in his mail today." He peered at Charlie for a moment and leaned over to listen more closely to his breathing, meeting Don's eyes. "But to answer your first question. People are trying to kill Charlie because they have been ordered to, and we don't question orders. Turns out Tompkins is a jealous lover. If he can't have Charlie's brain all to himself, he wants it stopped."

Don swallowed, and tried not to cry. "David's…gone," he managed. "Mer…Merrick ordered…break…"

Colby held Don's eyes for a moment longer, then sat back on his heels and went for Charlie's pulse again. "Well," he finally said. "That really sucks."


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: Repercussions 9**

**Author: Fraidy Cat**

**Disclaimer: Let me make this perfectly clear. I am but one of hundreds – possibly thousands, upon millions – of adoring fans of all things Eppes. I respectfully borrow most and/or all characters of "numb3rs", from time to time, always careful to bathe them and fluff them up before I return them – to their rightful owner. This would NOT be me. No, no, I honestly do not own them.**

**Okay?**

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There was a rattle.

Much as he did not want to admit it, Don knew that there was a rattle in Charlie's breathing.

Colby's attention was totally on his brother, so Don tried again to inch closer. "Charlie…."

Colby lifted his head and didn't even bother to tell Don not to move. "Try to wake him up," he instructed urgently instead. "I need to know what's going on."

Don's hand was still fisted in Charlie's jeans, and he shook as hard as he could, swallowing a groan and then speaking as loudly as he manage. "Bud… Buddy. Charlie! Please… I need you…."

Colby joined in, shaking Charlie's shoulder gently. "Whiz Kid! Wake the hell up, slacker!"

At length, Charlie's hand fluttered toward his chest and there was movement behind his closed eyelids. Don let go of his jeans long enough to secure a vise-like grip around his wrist. His fear escalated at the cool clamminess of Charlie's skin in the hot night. "Charlie!"

Charlie moaned softly, his long fingers playing at Don's underarm. "Get off," he gasped. "Can'breathe…" His lungs gurgled on an inhale, and Don closed his own eyes and learned that he had not reached the depth of his worry, yet. "Tellin' Mom…", Charlie mumbled, and then he was quiet.

When Don opened his eyes again, Colby was staring at him. "I think his lung is collapsed," he stated. "The other one might not be far behind. He's not getting enough air, it's making him goofy."

"Do something," Don begged, holding Charlie's wrist so tightly he was probably bruising him.

Colby sighed, and sat back a little. He looked away, at the wall, and then back at Don. "Listen," he finally said. "I wasn't trying to save myself, here, I know there's no way out for me. I wanted to keep this from happening to Charlie…but I was too late. I can take him to County, give a fake name and a lame story about playing with guns."

"You…can move him?"

Colby looked grim. "It's risky. In more ways than one. If I get him there alive, as soon as the docs see a GSW they'll have Security hold me for LAPD. Tompkins has goons there, too. It's only a matter of time before the wrong people find out who I really am – and then draw the logical conclusion about who Charlie really is. Damn David. He really screwed up my plans."

Don looked toward his rattling brother, again. "Will it hurt him?" He was still referring to the actual transport itself, refusing to think about a myriad of hit men gunning for Charlie.

"Might kill him," Colby answered, stealing Don's breath as effectively as the bullet was stealing Charlie's. "He'll probably start bleeding again, and I can't keep pressure on the wound and drive at the same time. He's already lost so much blood, it won't take him long to bleed out."

Don found himself wanting to slug his former partner in the face and watch his teeth spray all over the room. "I'll do it," he grunted.

Colby shook his head. "Ain't gonna work. I think you've lost more blood than he has."

"Roll up a towel and stick it inside me," ordered Don. "Take the cork out of the wine bottle in the refrigerator and plug up the hole. I don't care. Do what you have to, to keep me alert and alive long enough to get Charlie to the hospital. You are not taking my brother out of this house without taking me, too."

The speech had exhausted Don and amazed Colby. He hadn't thought Don had that much left in him. He had been preparing himself for Don to bleed to death for the last 15 minutes. Not for the first time since meeting the Eppes, he found himself wishing he had a real brother.

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He was known in the business as a "closer".

He was the one who was called in to clean up everybody else's messes, and make sure the job got done. Tompkins loved him, but used him sparingly. He was as expensive as hell.

He got paid whether he fired a round or not, so when he saw the other two operatives enter the house from his viewpoint across the street, he waited. After a few minutes he crossed to the yard of the Craftsman and tucked himself behind the corner of the garage, and waited some more. He was a little surprised. He knew both of those men, had seen their work, and they were good. Michaelson in particular was heartless and effective.

The brother's SUV was in the driveway, but what was one pitiful FBI agent against the likes of Michaelson? He knew if _he_ had to go in there and bat clean-up again, he was sure as hell taking the bastard out -- and demanding a huge bonus from Tompkins.

He gave them some time, because they wouldn't want it to look like a hit. The men would take care to ransack the house, and set the stage to effectively simulate a robbery. There was no sense interrupting them – and possibly getting his own head blown off for his trouble – until he had to.

He had finally decided that something had gone very wrong for Michaelson, and taken half a step to approach the house, when a car slowed and turned into the driveway. He fell back, narrowly avoiding being illuminated by the headlights, and adjusted his night vision goggles.

The old car's door creaked as it opened, and a pair of long, lovely, bare legs began to exit the vehicle.

Well, well, well.

Maybe there was another way to collect that bonus.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Megan finished talking to the LAPD Sergeant in charge of the scene, thanked him, and sighed, watching David.

Her partner was no longer hand-cuffed, and he leaned against the far wall of the lobby looking for all the world as if he would kill the next person who came near him.

She straightened her posture, and decided it might as well be her.

Still, she approached warily, smiling a little tremulously when he glared at her. She made sure she stopped walking out of fist range. "David. You can understand their concern."

He pushed off from the wall. "Just leave it, Megan." He forced himself to be civil. "Thank-you, for helping me straighten this out, but you need to shut the hell up, now."

Megan had just returned from almost five months on the nastiest assignment she would ever experience, only to find out one of her partners was a Chinese spy; and her lover would rather embrace cave drawings than her. She was in no mood. "I just may shoot you myself."

Megan held David's stare until his eyes wavered, and he took on the look of a little appropriate guilt. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Megan."

She nodded, businesslike. "Obviously, you're too upset to be behind the wheel. You can come with me to the Eppes house, or I can give you a ride home – but you are **not** getting in your car."

David put his hands on his hips and opened his mouth to argue, but decided suddenly that he was actually a little afraid of her. "Something up?", he asked, petulant.

"I don't know. Probably not. Alan called all upset because he can't reach Don, or Charlie. He was very convincing. I promised I'd go over and check things out. I was on my way there when you called."

David shrugged, and shoved a hand in the pocket of his jeans. Since he was more or less responsible for making Megan's day even longer, he probably at least owed her a little back-up. Besides, it wasn't like he had anything else to do…unless the DVDs the unknown Prescott had sent him were really fascinating. "I'm in," he finally said, leaning over to pick the manilla envelope up off the floor where he had dropped it earlier, when the LAPD bomb tech returned it. "Let's get the hell out of here."


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: Repercussions 10**

**Author: Fraidy Cat**

**Disclaimer: Let me make this perfectly clear. I am but one of hundreds – possibly thousands, upon millions – of adoring fans of all things Eppes. I respectfully borrow most and/or all characters of "numb3rs", from time to time, always careful to bathe them and fluff them up before I return them – to their rightful owner. This would NOT be me. No, no, I honestly do not own them.**

**Okay?**

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Megan idled at the red light and glanced sideways at David, slumped in the passenger seat, scowling. She noticed again the envelope dangliing near the floorboards. "My laptop is in the back seat," she offered, more to break the silence than anything else. "If the battery's got some juice left, you can look at those disks if you want."

"Hmpfh," he grumbled. "Should have just thrown the damn thing away."

Megan slipped her foot from the brake to the gas and lurched the car forward when the light changed, taking supreme satisfaction in watching David's hand fly up to brace himself against the dash. "Fine. It was just an offer."

He readjusted his shoulder belt, wincing a little, and turned his head to study Megan's profile. _Maybe I'm not the only one who's had a bad day_, he mused. He straightened a little in the passenger seat and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. Really. I appreciate the offer, and...and everything."

"Hmpfh," she answered, echoing his earlier sentiment. David decided to make it up to her, at least a little. He'd take her up on that laptop offer, so he could tell her what caused this whole mess. He shifted slighly in his seat until he saw the computer, reached out and snagged it. Flipping it open, David waited to see if it booted. While he did, he took one of the DVDs out of the envelope, dropping it to the floor when he was finished. When a truly frightening screen saver of Larry in an orange space suit appeared, David couldn't help himself. He shuddered.

Megan tensed beside him. "What?"

"Nothing," he said quickly and defensively. "Nothing. Just thinking I wouldn't want to float around the atmostphere for six months myself, that's all." The vehicle accelerated and David could tell Megan did not believe him. Looking for a quick distraction, he popped the DVD into the appropriate drive and right-clicked on the icon that appeared. He scrolled through the data and opened a Word document, frowning. "Damn," he whispered in a strangled voice, "this is a letter from Colby. To me."

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Alan perched on the edge of the small daybed in his niece's guest room, clutching his cell phone and staring at it, willing it to ring. He should be packing; he had to move to a hotel tomorrow so Ida could move in here. Yet he could not force his body to cooperate and put the phone down. The ringtone function might not be working, so he should watch the display. He needed to pick up right away, if someone called.

Eventually, his fingers began to itch, they wanted to pack so badly. Not so he could move to the hotel. He wanted to go home.

He bounced his knee up and down and argued with himself. He was being ridiculous. It would take him at least two hours to drive back to Pasadena, and he had absolutely no reason to go there. Alan was in the middle of a war between fact and heart. His head told him Ida had been scientifically proven to have had a stroke, and that he was needed here for at least a few more days. His heart told him nurses had already been hired and would show up tomorrow, his niece was a grown woman who would handle the details if he didn't coddle her by doing it for her, and that it was imperative that he get back to the L.A. area.

Now.

The sense of dread he felt had increased. Now, it could only be compared to how he had felt during the last few months of Margaret's life.

His mind made up, Alan stood shakily and staggered a little on his way to the end of the bed. Checking the cell again to make sure it was on, he clipped it carefully onto his waistband, as if it might blow up. Both hands finally free, he started throwing clothing into his suitcase like a man possessed.

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Pulling into the driveway, Amita did not see any lights in either the garage or the house, even though both Charlie's and Don's cars were there. It was possible Charlie had fallen asleep in the garage, but where was Don? Maybe they were in the house watching a movie with the lights off? She grapped the plastic bag on the passenger seat next to her and decided, climbing out of the car, to check the garage first

She lost her second half-gallon of ice cream that night, when something flew at her as she passed the corner of the garage and slammed her onto her back on the grass. The grocery bag flew out of her hand and the breath flew out of her lungs. Her body responded automatically, her knees struggling to rise and her hands pushing at the terrifying apparition on top of her. As tiny particles of oxygen filtered back into her system, Amita's brain began to function, again. She registered the rough hands pressing at her breasts, and the bony knee trying to force her legs apart, and understood that this was only a man. Despite the surreal goggles that obscured his face, making him look like some kind of cyborg, it was obvious from his actions what he wanted. She opened her mouth to scream at the top of her lungs, gulping in even more air, and choked off the shout before it really got started. Amita continued to fight and resist, and decided instead that if she was going to die, she sure as hell was going to make sure this bastard would pay, first.

Her hands had been pounding his back, but now she frantically pushed up his t-shirt, and dug her fingernails into his bare skin. She clawed, collecting all the DNA she could for the medical examiner to use. When he arched and roared, she brought her head up from the ground and buried her teeth in his shoulder, leaving her bitemark on his flesh. He moved a hand from her breast long enough to backhand her hard across the face, and her head fell back as she saw stars. _Charlie_, she thought desperately when he pinned her arms over her head, _Charlie!_ _Help me!_


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: Repercussions 11**

**Author: Fraidy Cat**

**Disclaimer: Last night I had a dream. It was a lovely spatial interlude, in which I kept Don and Charlie in a large box under my bed. I did this because I owned them. But alas, this was only a dream, and all too soon I awoke screaming. A cat perched upon my chest and gazed soulfully into my eyes, as if to say, "Dude. Chill". I understood with sudden and painful clarity that the bodies in the box under my bed were not Don and Charlie; for they are owned -- as are all things "numb3rs" -- by someone else. All day long, I have labored in the fields, disposing of evidence.**

**Yet, that is another story.**

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David slammed shut the laptop and tossed it unceremoniously over his shoulder. It bounced off the rear of the back seat and thudded on the floorboard.

'HEY!", yelled Megan, as the car swung dangerously close to oncoming traffic. "You break it, you buy it, Sinclair! I'm still making payments on that damn thing. Charlie talked me into a lot more computer than I need."

David slammed his clenched fist into the passenger window, and Megan winced, expecting it to shatter. "That son of a bitch!", he spat. "Did he _always_ think I was this stupid?"

Megan glanced at him, confused. "Stupid? The letter called you stupid?"

David let go a snort of laughter. "Might as well have. Fed me a bunch of shit about being sorry, and then said that none of this was his fault. That egotistical, mother…"

"Hey," Megan interrupted, uttering the word more gently this time. "Whose fault does he say it is? DeWayne's?"

David sighed. "Damned if I know. As soon as I hit the part asking me to understand, I stopped reading. We investigated this case for days. If he wanted me to understand, he would have told me before he was outed. Arrogant son of a... if it's broken, I'll buy you a new one."

Megan, turning onto the residential street that housed Casa Eppes, managed to follow his train of thought. "Damn straight you will."

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When the swing of headlights into the driveway illuminated the living room briefly, Colby looked at Don worriedly in the diluted glow. "Your Dad?"

Don shook his head. "Out…town."

Colby hung his head. "Shit," he grumbled into his chest. "This night just can't get any better." He pushed up off the dining room floor, shot Charlie a quick look, and drew his firearm up before him as he crept along the wall. Cautiously, he stole into the living room and approached the window from the side. He had lowered the blinds as soon as he arrived, and now he pried two slats apart a fraction with his fingers, and peered into the yard.

There were solar lights around the koi pond, so even taking the city's light pollution into account, it was lighter outside than it was inside the house. It didn't hurt that the moon was almost full, either. Colby recognized Amita's old clunker right away. He'd been here plenty of times when it was in the driveway. "Damn," he breathed. The car's headlights were off now, and he searched the perimeter of the yard for her form, paying careful attention to the paved walkway that led around the back to the kitchen door. In the stillness of the night, Don's breathy "Who?" was easy to hear.

Colby stage-whispered over his shoulder.

"Whiz Kid's girlfriend, I think. It's her car, I'm sure, but I can't…oh, God."

"What?" Don's next floating syllable had a somewhat frantic quality.

Colby let go of the blinds and raced back the way he had come, heading for the swinging door that separated the dining room and the kitchen. "Stay here," he ordered Don needlessly as he flew past. "Got a little situation out there."

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Five months until full retirement, and they stick him in a car with a rookie.

What were those idiots thinking?

It wouldn't do the department any good to get him killed, at this point. Thanks to the union, and the considerable political clout of the Police Officer's Survivors Association, he was close enough to retirement that Jeannie could claim full spousal benefits. This was some desk sergeant's sick kick in the _cahones_, that's what it was.

Officer Michael O'Malley gripped the steering wheel of the cruiser tighter and mentally cursed his former partner Elliot. Almost seven years together, two of the most decorated and longest-serving street cops left in L.A., and the jerk had to retire six lousy months before he did, and screw it all up. Now Elliot was baking his balls on a beach in Barbados, while he, Michael Sean O'Malley, was stuck in a cruiser with a wet-behind-the-ears rookie.

Damn kid looked like he might throw up any second.

Had to be a 10-16. Domestic disturbance, one of the cop's worst nightmares.

Rookies were the other one.

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At one point, Alan had to pull over onto the shoulder of the freeway, because he couldn't breathe. He thought he might be having a heart attack, but finally decided there was no pain, anywhere. Maybe he was hyperventilating. Looking around the pristine interior of the vehicle for a stray paper sack, for once Alan was sorry he kept the car so neat. Finally, growing a little dizzy, he just leaned his head back against the headrest and waited to pass out. He had witnessed enough of Charlie's panic attacks to know that as soon as he passed out, his instincts would kick in and he would start breathing, again.

In was with that passing thought that Alan knew, with absolute certainty, that Charlie was dying.

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Amita's terrified heart nearly gave up when the second man landed on top of her. She wasn't a freakin' Amazon, there was no way she could fight off two of them. Having already left her mark on the first attacker, this time when she opened her mouth she let loose with a blood-chilling scream that ended in a sob. She curled up on her side, hugging her arms around her heaving midsection, and cried.

Later, she could never say what tipped her off, but eventually she noticed that no-one was impeding her movement: She had rolled onto her side. Her cries ended in an abrupt hiccup, and she opened her eyes – which was when she realized that she must have closed them. In the light of the nearly-full moon and the koi pond lights, she could make out the struggling forms of two men on the ground a few feet away from her. The attackers were fighting each other?

She unwrapped her arms and used her bruised hands to push at the grass beneath her, trying to scramble backwards. She only made it a few inches before the dislodged night-vision goggles gouged at the back of her bare legs. In her confused horror, she thought a third attacker had appeared, and she dropped back to the ground and screamed again. This time it came out as a wail, and showed no indications of stopping any time soon. She wasn't in control of anything, anymore. Not her body, her sense of reason, not even her own voice.

She could not stop wailing, like a dysfunctional siren, even when a pair of headlights plowed into the driveway and more clearly illuminated the grappling would-be rapists. In fact, as she recognized Colby Granger's broad back, just before his gun discharged in a flash of brilliant light and deafening sound, Amita found that she could actually scream a little louder.

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The glow of the headlights as they entered the driveway clearly outlined Amita lying on the grass and two men rolling around near her, fighting. Megan and David each readied a service weapon and exited her car at the same time. They had only advanced a step or two when the gun went off.

Megan immediately dropped to the ground, trying to make herself as small as possible until she could get back to the vehicle's cover. David, reckless and angry, just aimed his semi-automatic at the shadows and kept advancing. He wasn't even in a crouch, but a full, upright, walk. "FBI!", he yelled, drowing out Megan's frantic, "David!"

"Freeze where you are!"

Colby, spattered with the closer's death-spray of blood, used the now-still body as cover and rolled in one quick adrenaline rush to his feet. His own gun stretched before him, and he had cocked the hammer before he fully realized that he was about to shoot his best friend.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: Repercussions 12**

**Author: Fraidy Cat**

**Disclaimer: Today, a man painted my house – which is actually a mobile home. I chose a pastel yellow. I am a graphic artist by trade, and I stand by that choice. However, I neglected to think about the fact that a singlewide mobile home is long, and rectangular. I now live in a cube of butter. The point I want to make, here, is that there is nothing to do now, except spice it up with some caramel trim, because ****I own this place****. I cannot complain to the landlord. My name is on the deed. This constitutes ownership, yes, even responsibility, if you will. It is with tremendous relief that I announce to you all that I do ****not**** own "numb3rs".**

**A/N: The vision of Colby and David holding each other at gunpoint on the Eppes lawn was just too much for me. I had to let us all sit with that for a while. Plus, I knew what was next.**

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The rattle had turned into a gurgle, and the gurgles were too far apart.

Don lay next to Charlie, petting his arm as if it were a content cat, counting the seconds between the gurgles. He could hardly believe he was thinking it, but he really wanted Colby to come back.

When he reached "17", Don knew Charlie was in trouble, and he tensed. At "24", he knew Charlie had stopped breathing, and he lurched up in one motion that dimmed his vision with white-hot pain and dislodged the bandage Colby had rigged for his gut. Ignoring the warm liquid running freely down his lower abdomen to soak into the waistband of his jeans, Don moved his hand to shake Charlie violently. He felt as if he couldn't breathe himself. He would have been shocked to discover that he was actually screaming.

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Colby's voice was low with emotion, but still easily heard in the sudden silence. "David. Good to see you, dude."

David's hand shook slightly with rage and pain, as neither man lowered his weapon. "Drop it, Colby. I don't know how the hell you got out, but if you don't drop your weapon now...I will shoot you."

Amita sobbed on the grass, rising as far as her knees before finding she could go no farther. Megan lifted empty hands over the open car door. "Let me go to Amita. I'm unarmed. You don't need to hurt her, Colby."

He snorted. "Come on Megan, how long have you been off the job, anyway? Use your eyes! I didn't hurt Amita! Look carefully, and you'll note a dead guy on the grass."

"Friend of yours?", asked David sarcastically.

Colby felt incredibly exposed on the lawn -- and incrediby angry. "You didn't get your mail, did you?"

David's gun dipped a fraction of an inch. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Amita sobbed again, and Colby backed up a few feet so that he was behind her. "Go ahead." He directed his words at Megan, but didn't take his eyes off David. Slowly, Megan left all cover, showing Colby her weaponless hands again. As she crept in a low crouch towards Amita, Colby kept talking to David. "It's evidence, man, digital recordings, transcripts. Tompkins is bad, and you're getting the proof. People are trying to kill Charlie -- starting with what you thought was at attempt on Ashby, in the hospital. He needs protection. And an ambulance, by the way."

David brought his gun back up. "Is that how you've been protecting him?", he asked, bitterly. "You did something to him? Where is he?"

Colby's eyes flashed in the night. "David. Dave. It's me. Please. I came here to...look, we'll get to all that. Bottom line, Don and Charlie are both in the house, and they're both in bad shape." There was silence again. Megan had reached Amita, given her a cursory once-over and now rocked her gently on the lawn, trying to soothe her nearly hysterical sobs. Megan was staring at Colby, who was staring at David, who was glancing at Megan for a clue as to what he should do. Realizing suddenly that he was holding his best friend at gunpoint, Colby's hand convulsed a little and the weapon jerked.

It was at that moment that the discharge of a gun cracked the cool night air.

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Officer O'Malley had pulled the cruiser quietly to the curb just before the driveway full of cars. He reached for the door handle, stopping to feel the reassuring metal of the gun in his holster. "Call for back-up," he instructed the rookie tightly, "and watch your back. I see two weapons, several bodies on the lawn."

Kenny Resnick did as he was told, calling in an 11-99, Officer Needs Help. His young heart nearly exploded out of his chest as he scrambled out of the vehicle after his partner. Finally. Some action. O'Malley might be six months out and scared shitless of everything, but he, for one, became a cop for moments like this. Still, it was not an accident that he was at the top of his Academy class, and he followed his more experienced partner's lead. They ran in a crouch for the car parked at the end of the driveway, guns drawn, to take cover before announcing their presence. A cloud moved unseen in the sky, allowing more moonlight to fall over the tableau before them, and Officer Resnick took advantage of the moment. When he thought he recognized the front page photo from the copy of the _L.A. Times _he had in the cruiser, he stood up straight, ignoring O'Malley's hissed warning. Son of a bitch. He was right, he was sure of it. That was the guy, the spy. The FBI agent who got busted a couple of weeks ago.

After a moment of stunned inaction, Kenny leveled his own weapon and could not believe his luck. On the streets for less than two weeks, and he was going to collar an escaped spy! He was about to order both men onto the ground when several things occurred in rapid succession. He saw the spy's hand move in preparation to fire, and he knew he had to shoot first. O'Malley, having crawled back to him, tried to jerk Kenny back down into a protective crouch, throwing off his ordinarily flawless aim. And just as he released his own trigger, sending a bullet speeding across the lawn, Officer Resnick saw the spy jerk, and drop his gun.

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David found it difficult to focus on anything Colby said after "Please", but he did notice when his former partner dropped his firearm on the grass, and he started to lower his own at the same time. "Colby," he whispered, all the love of the last two years and pain of the last two weeks finding their way into the two syllables. He was unheard over the report of Officer Resnick's gun. Even as David lowered his own weapon, even as Colby's semi-automatic thudded on the ground, David watched a round rip into Granger's torso, spinning him around and dropping him in a heap almost on top of Megan and Amita. Amita screamed again, and Megan pushed her slightly to the rear, not knowing where the bullet had come from. She waved her own gun in the air. "FBI! Hold your fire! FBI!", she was yelling, over and over.

David had holstered his weapon in the five steps it took him to reach Colby, unconcerned with seeking cover himself. He could only focus on his partner, who was lying on his back, eyes wide open and staring unseeing at the sky. "Colby!", he repeated, dropping to his knees beside him. His knees created a splash in the two pints of blood that had already poured from Colby Granger's heart, but David pressed shaking fingers to his carotid artery anyway. "Colby," he said yet again, ignoring the LAPD officer who was suddenly kneeling beside him and gibbering on about kill shots and bleeding out. David pressed his hands to the cavern in Colby's chest, burying them in his friend's blood, and pushed. Another pint of blood bubbled out, along with a hiss of air, but David would not be budged.

He was crying when Megan finally put her hands over his, and helped him push.

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Don heard the shot, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was literally falling onto Charlie's chest at the time. His sudden descent had not been planned, but as he rolled off with a moan of mingled pain and fear, at least he heard another gurgle come out of his brother. "Help," he said, his voice barely audible in the dining room. "Oh, God, help..."

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Ignored by everyone, Amita shook and watched the activity that centered on Colby, who was obviously dead, and her attacker, who was also obviously dead. She struggled to make sense out of the last ten minutes, shaking harder as the memories assaulted her mind. Then she stiffened, Colby's words on _Playback_. He had said Charlie was in the house, and he said Charlie was hurt.

Amita latched onto that, and started crawling toward the kitchen door. She was halfway there before she remembered how to walk. Once she had pushed herself up on wobbly legs, she couldn't seem to stop and broke into an awkward, almost-drunken run. She didn't hear Megan's frantic voice commanding her to stop, she just jerked open the unlocked kitchen door and vaulted into the dark house. Her hand automatically hit the master switch, turning on all the lights on the bottom floor. She squinted against the sudden onslaught, holding one hand up to her eyes, never stopping her advance through the kitchen. She tried to open her mouth and yell for Charlie, but no sound came out, and she wondered briefly about that as she pushed through the swinging door into the dining room.

Immediately she tripped over yet another body, and sprawled headlong onto the carpet, burning her bare elbows and knees. She tried to push herself back up, frantically, but her hand kept slipping in something sticky and wet. Amita looked to the other end of the dining room, searching blindly for help. Instead, her eyes lit on two more bodies, and another indescribable amount of blood. Her eyes started to roll back in her head in shock when a sound between a wheeze and a drowning rattle pulled her attention back to the bodies.

She saw the curly hair, leaned over, and carefully threw up all over Alan's antique armoire.

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	13. Chapter 13

**Repercussions: 13**

**Author: Fraidy Cat**

**Disclaimer: While I have contemplated ownership of Don, Charlie et al, it seems to me that this would place me in a different tax bracket. And so I respectfully decline.**

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Alan had only been back on the freeway and up to speed for a few minutes when the cell he still clutched in his hand finally rang.

He slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the shoulder again so quickly, he nearly caused a multiple-car pile-up. Horns blared and tires squealed, but Alan didn't even notice. He continued to roll slowly in the shoulder as he positioned the phone so that he could see the display. When he saw Megan's name, a spear of unmitigated fear was instantly replaced with strength, and resolve. He flipped the cell open and barked into it. "Which son?", he demanded. "What hospital?"

After a confused second of silence, Megan answered, her own voice businesslike and controlled. "Both, Alan. Cedars-Sinai."

Alan's mind calculated rapidly, faster than any GPS. "I'm still an hour out," he told her. "You keep them alive for an hour."

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When the third ambulance that had been at the scene veered onto a street that would take them away from Cedars, the paramedic who saw them split off was not surprised. They must have been redirected. Probably to the county morgue, since it had looked as if their patient was long-gone by the time they started working on him. The only thing that had surprised the EMT was the fact that the other team made any effort to resuscitate at all. No-one could lose that much blood and survive.

His attention refocused on the back of his own rig when shouts rose over the sound of the siren. From all appearanes, they were losing their own patient.

Frankly, he hadn't expected him to last this long.

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David, almost thoroughly worthless by now, had nonetheless pulled it together sufficiently enough to help Megan secure the scene and locate Don and Charlie in the house. Unsettled about sending her patner off in his current state, Megan had little choice. She certainly couldn't trust him to drive a car himself, so she shoved him in the ambulance with an unconscious Don. Amita was going with an unconscious Charlie, leaving Megan to wait for relief at the house -- and call Alan. It would be hours before she herself could drive to Cedars, and she was terrified that by the time she could go, there would no longer be any reason.

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Amita was holding his hand for a while, but when he flatlined she was shoved unceremoniously out of the way. Her mind had ceased to comprehend the horrors of the night, and she watched silently as paddles were placed on Charlie's hastily-shaved, bloody chest. As he received a jolt of electricity and his body lifted and arched, she stared at the top of his head and the gray hair she had pointed out to him, gleefully, just last night.

Had that been just last night?

Charlie had told her about his "P vs. NP" episode after his mother's death, and for the first time she understood. She watched his body arch again, and wanted nothing more than chalk in her hand, an occupied brain, the normalcy of total immersion in the numbers. "I get it," she said outloud, unheard over the monotone of the flatline and the scream of the siren. She repeated herself. "I get it. Now come back."

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As soon as the ambulance was out of sight contact with both of the other two, the driver killed the siren and the lights, and slowed to a normal speed. He expertly weaved through back streets and alleys, sticking to a predetermined route.

In the back, Colby Granger shakily sat up on the gurney, clutching at his chest, and glaring at FBI Director Merrick. "I told you we couldn't trust these guys. Get this damn thing off me."

A hand reached out and slapped his away from his artificial wound, slipping a little in the manufactured blood. "That prosthesis is worth over a quarter of a million dollars," insisted a false EMT. "We'll take it off you at the safe house. And I might point out that even though _you're_ the one who deviated from the plan, it worked extremely well. You should be thanking us."

Colby continued to paw at the mixture of Kevlar and synthetic skin. "You're an asshole," he announced to Jim Levitt, the Assistant Director of the National Security Agency. "Your people never even showed their faces. They let two men get in the house, and they were going to let that girl be raped. You think I give a shit about your high-tech toys? And take off the fake mustasche. You look ridiculous."

"Agent Granger," began Merrick, and then stopped, momentarily disconcerted by the fact that Colby was not an agent anymore.

Levitt took the opportunity to speak, somewhat disdainfully. "Believe me, the operatives on this case were handpicked. I guarantee their loyalty. However, their incompetence is a matter of some regret. They will definitely answer for their inaction, tonight." He suddenly looked somewhat affronted. "And this is not just a fake mustasche, it's an entire facial prosthetic mask. It's not like I can just rip it off."

The other "paramedic", a deep-cover CIA operative disgusted by the whole operation, came down hard on Colby's side. He reached out toward Levitt. "I'd be happy to do it for you," he growled, and latched onto the mustache and started pulling.

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**A/N: You people just don't trust me at all, **

**do you?**

**Just for that, your chapter tonight is very tiny.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Repercussions: 14**

**Author: Fraidy Cat**

**Disclaimer: Ah. If I but owned the likes of an Eppes. Surely then I would not be plagued by the disclaimer police, and pursued by ranting PMs from anonymous folks in serious need of professional help. I tell you, this fanfic thing is becoming less fun, and more of a chore, by the moment: It is for ****you**** -- the few, the loyal, and the sane -- that I even attempt to continue. In the spirit of what is right, I cannot abandon you mid-story. (That's the sort of thing crazy anonymous ghosts **_**should**_** get really cranky about.)**

**Seriously. Dudes. Dude-ettes. At no point have I attempted to convince anyone that I, in any way, own and/or profit from, "numb3rs". Also seriously: you're wearing me down, here.**

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Alan completed the last hour of his drive in 45 minutes.

He told himself that later, that whenever Don was recuperated from whatever was wrong with him, he would confess and offer to make a huge donation to the National Police and Trooper Association. It would be the equivalent of at least one speeding ticket; three tickets for running red lights; and one ticket for reckless driving. Also, he would write a letter of apology to that old woman he had obviously scared into catatonia when he avoided being trapped behind her slow-moving sedan by driving up onto the curb. He shrugged, hurrying down the wide and endless corridors of the hospital. It was really more like cutting a corner – he hadn't been on the sidewalk all that long, and he made sure it was deserted, first. Old bat probably shouldn't be driving anymore, anyway.

He rounded another corner and found himself in a small waiting area. He stopped short, his attention immediately drawn to David, who stood motionless, dead-center in the middle of the hallway. Various hospital personnel, with and without equipment, and apparent visitors, were streaming around him as if he wasn't even there. No-one in a trauma center in the middle of the night had the time nor the inclination to bother a large, sullen black man who stood glaring at his own feet.

Alan ignored their paranoia and started for him. "David!", he called. A nurse in green scrubs started for him out of the corner of the waiting area, at a dead run, and Alan quickened his own pace. "David!", he called again, this time craving protection from whatever news she was bringing. David looked up at him with heartbroken eyes that pierced Alan to the soul. "What is it?", he whispered, slowing his step a little. Alan was still, thankfully as it turned out, thrown almost five feet and steadied by the FBI agent when the green scrubs hurtled themselves at him. In his shock, Alan could not for the life of him figure out why a nurse was crying hysterically and clutching at his neck.

With a surprising, almost-superhuman surge of strength, David dragged Alan and the nurse to the closest grouping of chairs, out of the main traffic flow. The poor man literally dropped them when they arrived, and Alan thudded hard into a plastic molded chair. He was still trying to disentangle himself from the obviously crazed nurse. He gave up on chivalry and gripped her upper arms firmly, prepared to thrust her away, when he finally registered that the 'nurse' was actually Amita, wearing obviously borrowed clothes. Her long hair was messily pulled back in a pony tail, tears were streaming down her face and she was apparently speaking Italian. "_Signore Papa Eppes_,"she gasped, fighting against him, "_mi amore, es morto, es morto…_"

As firmly as he had been trying to escape her, Alan now pulled her toward him. He held her shaking, sobbing body to his chest as she kneeled on the floor, and stared in horror over her head at David. _My lover is dead _?

Oh, dear God….

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To say Megan was surprised to suddenly see Assistant Director Ben Adelson on the scene would have been a major understatement. The last she knew, he was on special assignment to the D.C. office, a move that had surprised everyone. In the Merrick-Adelson kingdom, Adelson was known as the administrative half of the equation. No-one could even remember when he had been an agent in the field – or _if_ he had ever been one, for that matter. Suddenly he was not just back in L.A., but striding toward her across the now-floodlit lawn of the Eppes house, face grim and controlled.

Megan had been listening to a report from a LAPD Captain now on the scene, a man who was insisting that his rookie officer had made the right call when he shot former FBI Agent Granger. The vic was a spy, after all, the Captain pointed out, and Resnick witnessed him preparing to fire a weapon. When the Captain saw Megan's eyes widen and look beyond him, he knew he had lost her attention and turned, prepared to give all kinds of hell to whoever had interrupted them. Immediately a gold Bureau ID was shoved in his face, and the Captain reconsidered. He was not entirely sure who the newcomer was, but he had not risen to his own rank through luck or accident. He was nothing if not savvy, and like a bloodhound he could sense a superior officer. He was also proud of his ability to make fast decisions under pressure, and now, without so much as another syllable, he slunk off into the night.

Adelson reached out and grabbed Megan's elbow, turning her away from the bulk of the activity. "I understand your partner caused some apprehension at the post office this evening."

They were walking across the lawn, but Megan stopped stubbornly and glared up at him, not giving a shit who he was. "One of my partners is dead, and another one could be dying, along with his brother – who, by the way, is one of our consultants. And YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT DAVID'S DAMN MAIL?" Toward the end, Megan's voice nearly qualified as a shriek, and Adelson visibly winced.

He began pushing at her again. "Shut-up!", he commanded, and the harshness of his words, as well as the actual words themselves, had their desired effect. Megan walked woodenly, staring at him in near-shock now. "Do you have the envelope?", he continued, his voice low in her ear. "Dear God, woman, tell me you have the envelope."

It was clear now that their destination was Megan's car, but absolutely nothing else about the night made any sense. She let her rage overtake her again, suddenly reaching out and hitting him in the chest hard with both hands. "Somebody better tell me what the hell is going on here," she panted as he staggered back a step-and-a-half. "I know where your precious envelope is, but you can rot in hell before I give it to you. Sir."

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...

Colby paced the tiny living room, caught up in a chasm between anger and anxiety. An untouched open beer bottle was in his right hand, and as he used it to punctuate his words, foam flew out of the container and speckled Director Merrick's face. "We both have a pretty good idea by now that there is no such thing as a 'safe house'. I want out of here. Why hasn't Adelson called?"

Merrick calmly mopped at his face with his $40-dollar linen handkerchief. "This is the ultimate in safe houses, Granger. It's typically only used in deep, deep cover operations. It's not even on the books."

Colby sniggered, bitterly. "You sure? Maybe there's a list somewhere; some obscure, convoluted code. Charlie will find it..." He paled and sat hard in an overstuffed chair, suddenly remembering that Charlie might not find anything again.

Merrick let the silence tick on for a few seconds before he continued. "Assistant Director Adelson will contact me as soon as he has secured the evidence against Tompkins." He sighed, and shook his head slightly. "If only Sinclair had left town this morning, when I ordered him to. Our operatives were prepared to retrieve the envelope after it arrived in the late deposit of mail. They were at the substation and about to launch the back-up plan when that woman started screaming, and all hell broke loose! As it was, they were lucky to escape the area undetected, with their covers intact."

Colby took a hit off the bottle, draining half of it. "I don't even want to know what the back-up plan was. I had my reasons for sending the proof to David in the first place, you know."

"And they were foolish reasons," Merrick sniffed dismissively. "If you were truly concerned about your former partner, his safety would have been paramount in your mind when you made that decision."

"You son of a bitch," Granger growled, heaving the half-full beer bottle directly at Merrick's face and launching himself from the chair to follow. The Director expertly and calmly deflected the bottle with a well-placed hand, which he continued to hold aloft as the two Agents who were acting as bodyguards, sprang into action. Within milliseconds each had grabbed onto and maintained a hold on one of Colby's arms. "Release him," Merrick commanded softly, raising his eyebrows at Colby. "Unless you prefer to go through all of this just to end up with a broken neck in a house that does not exist."

Colby fairly roared in frustration, jerked away from his captors and stomped purposefully away from Merrick. He ran a hand through his hair, and the gesture reminded him of Don. Reaching the far wall, he spun back around to face Merrick. "What about Don and Charlie?", he almost begged, plaintive. "Will somebody call about them? Are they still alive?"

Merrick winced, and he looked away from Granger, his eyes roaming the room. "Most unfortunate. Most unfortunate. Levitt's men were idiots. I cannot be reached, here, except on the cell that only Adelson knows about. If Megan or David has tried to contact me; they have failed. We'll have to wait until Ben calls. Perhaps he will know something."

Colby turned again and punched a fist through the wall, shattered sheetrock littering the floor around him. "Adelson might know something," he repeated, dsgusted. "Well, I guess there's a first time for everything."


	15. Chapter 15

**Repercussions: 15**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: There exists, somewhere upon Planet Earth, people who own the television series "numb3rs". These people created the main core of characters reflected in this work of F – I – C - T – I – O – N. (Repeat after me: "****Fic-_tion_****".) I would not be one of those people.**

**A/N: Oops. I think I sent some of you PMs while logged in as "Rabid Raccoons". That was me. Anyway, YES Amita is of Indian (as in the country) descent. However, she is American-born, and only recently visited that country for the first time. So, she is a genius, and went to American schools – where I am sure she studied at least one language. It's more or less required everywhere I know about. Besides. I made it up.**

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It took two real nurses and an orderly to drag Amita off Alan. David contributed by holding Alan steady while they pulled her off like melted taffy. "She's been refusing treatment," the Agent murmured into Alan's ear. "We keep trying to tell her Charlie's not dead..."

The room was obscured in a haze of white light and Alan came very near to passing out. As his body slumped, an unknown voice floated past him, just out of reach. "Good Lord, we've got another one going down. We need more help here!"

Alan pulled himself back, with gargantuan effort, and focused on David's tortured eyes. "He's not dead?"

David shook his head, patting him awkwardly on the arm from his crouched position in front of him. "No. He flatlined in the ambulance, that's why she's convinced he's...gone. But they got him back, and up to the O.R. Don's in surgery, too."

Alan noticed suddenly that Amita had been removed, and his eyes tracked a number of uniforms pushing a gurney down the hall. He tried to force his body to move in the chair, but apparently he was paralyzed. "Where are they taking her?", he asked desperately. "The boys are in surgery?" He couldn't quite force the conversation to make sense, yet.

David shifted a little and Alan heard his knees crack. "They gave her a sedative. She signed forms to waive treatment, but that one nurse said that because she attacked you, they were within their rights to sedate her."

Alan pulled his gaze back to David and frowned. "What? She didn't attack me..." He tried to move again, and this time succeeded in sliding a foot enough to accidentally connect with David's shin. "I need to tell them, find out about my sons. Help me."

David heaved himself up to sit in a chair next to Alan. "I think they know," he assured him. "They're just going to take her to an exam room and let her sleep it off. She's traumatized. And scared shitless."

Alan rubbed a weary hand across his face. "That makes two of us," he mumbled. Dropping his hand, he looked more sternly at David. He was somehow able to gather his no-nonsense Father voice at the same time. "I think you'd better tell me just what the hell happened, tonight."

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Megan sat in the back of her own car and studied the screen of the laptop for at least five minutes, navigating from one window to another and listening to a digital recording twice. Finally she lifted stunned eyes to Assistant Director Adelson, who sat next to her silently. The computer screen cast an eerie glow over everything, and for a moment she was convinced his face was made of wax, and melting. "This is unbelievable."

The wax mask melted into a sarcastic smile. "Quite. It's difficult to ascertain the damage Robert Tompkins has done, but we have determined that he worked alone -- without government instruction, or accountability." He sighed. "At some point, he just became convinced that there were too many rules, too much red tape, and that his actions were patriotic in some way."

Megan was still trying to make sense of it. "He had his own clandestine force of operatives? How did he bankroll that? And covers, he had to have some help with the cover stories..."

Adelson grimaced. "Robert Tompkins is an extremely powerful man. One of the most powerful in the country, and he has been in that position for quite some time. It was child's play for him to manipulate the system to suit his own requirements. As for money, some of it actually came from the NSA budget. He was creating both a smokescreen and a potential defense for himself -- should he ever be apprehended. I'm sure he will argue that this force of elite assassins and spies was mandated and sanctioned by the United States government. Tompkins also came into the position with considerable personal resources. Old money, family money, that he was more than willing to invest into this enterprise. Like many of the truly insane, he is also diabolically clever. Genius-level I.Q., in fact."

Megan had a sudden insight. "Is this why you were in Washington?"

Adelson's face became impassive in the pale light, and he absently twirled a jump drive in his fingers before placing it carefully in his pocket. "That is not your concern," he answered shortly.

Megan positioned herself deliberately on the seat, and her hand shot out, landing in a resounding slap on the Assistant Director's face. "You may have killed them all," she said in cold fury. "I'm making it my business."

Adelson's eyes flashed as he rubbed at his cheek. "That is regrettable, Agent Reeves. You would do well to remember who the hell I am. I have extended you just about all the understanding I am going to, on this matter."

Megan swallowed thickly and looked back at the screen. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. "What's going to happen now?"

The Assistant Director reached out to take the laptop from her. He balanced it on his lap and rapped on the window sharply, attracting the attention of two suited men who had been lurking in the shadows near the car, ignoring all the other activity going on in front of and inside the Eppes house.

Megan choked out an almost-hysterical laugh. "Men In Black," she said, dully. "You have Men in Black."

Adelson put his hand on the door handle to leave, but at the last second half-turned toward her again. "The evidence and the back-up copy will be duplicated, then stored in separate locations. We have a team in place to arrest Robert Tompkins as soon as it is secured."

Megan pushed her luck. "David and I should be part of that."

The A.D. sighed. "I was, unhappily, anticipating that you would say that."

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...

One of the 'nurses' who had helped with Alan's Amitaectomy turned out to be a doctor, and she was back before Alan managed to go looking for someone who knew more about what was happening to his sons than David did. The distraught agent was trying to be helpful and informative, but he was still largely in the dark about the evening's events himself. His story was convoluted and confusing. First, Alan thought that he was saying Colby had escaped and tried to kill both of his sons. Then, it sounded like someone else was trying to kill everyone he ever met, and that Colby was really the Good Guy and had tried to protect Don and Charlie. Somewhere in there, some kind of military operative with night vision goggles attacked Amita on the lawn and tried to rape her, among other things. By the time David meandered to the part about an LAPD policeman committing murder, Alan was pushing up off the chair to search out someone who spoke English. Slowly. As he was standing, green scrubs came at him again and he dropped back down, a little afraid that Amita may have fought her way out of sedation.

"Mr. Eppes. I'm Dr. Martin, and I have information about your sons."

Alan exhaled a breath of relief. Finally. _That_ he could understand. He stood quickly this time, barely noticing that David stood with him. "Yes? Yes?"

The harried woman pushed a hand through her hair and consulted a chart in her hand. "You understand that I did not treat...um...the eldest, I believe. Don?"

Alan nodded eagerly. "That's my eldest. But you can tell me?"

She nodded. "Some. Don presented with a serious puncture wound in his abdomen, caused by some sort of injury of impalement The object had been removed, although we suspect it was wood. Splinters. He lost a great deal of blood; a great deal. He was unconscious and non-responsive upon arrival. So far he has received three units of O negative, the universal donor. He's been typed and cross-matched now and is receving a unit of..."

"B," Alan supplied. "Positive. I can give blood," he added. "Donnie and I are the same type."

"I'll send you down to the lab," she answered, still looking at the chart. "Anyway. An MRI showed that his spleen was torn and there is some major bruising of other organs." She looked up. "Really, he's remarkably lucky. The tear in the spleen is small, and surgeons are repairing it now, in a laproscopic procedure. They do not anticipate the organ's removal. From what I see here, I would say that his prognosis is good."

Alan smiled, a little tremulously. "Charlie? My other son?"

The doctor lowered the chart, and frowned. "Yes. I was one of the physicians who treated him here in the trauma bay. I'm afraid Charlie was even more seriously injured. He sustained a gunshot wound to the upper left quadrant, which led to a collapsed lung. He, too, suffered major blood loss, and they lost his heartbeat in the ambulance. He arrived in V-fib." Alan had started to sway at "gunshot wound", and David gripped his elbow. "Perhaps you should sit," the doctor suggested kindly.

Alan stiffened, and shook his head. "But David said you got him back, that he's in surgery."

"True," she confirmed. "He also received some O negative blood. Unfortunately, in Charlie's case, he suffered immediate rejection and we nearly lost him again. We had to delay further treatment and surgery until we had a specific blood type -- and there is a call out to other area medical centers to obtain more. We're trying to recycle his own blood now, but there is just so little left. Did you know how rare Charlie's blood type is, Mr. Eppes? Only one in 167 people are AB negative."

Alan paled, and swayed a little again. "My son will appreciate knowing the numbers on that," he finally responded. "You'll save his life, so I can tell him. He's a math teacher, you know. A professor, at CalSci. He likes... he likes numbers."

The doctor's eyes flickered to David's for a moment, and then she looked back at Alan. Her voice when she spoke maintained the same matter-of-fact manner she had used all along, and Alan found that oddly comforting. "We will do our best, Mr. Eppes. If I do say so myself, this is what we do best here at Cedars. We save people."


	16. Chapter 16

**Repercussions: 16**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: This would be the oh-so-necessary part of the document where I inform you all that you are complete idiots if you think I own so much as a shoelace upon the podiatric covering of either of our remarkable Eppes men. Nor, alas, their friends and/or relatives.**

**A/N: Why are so many of the people who question me anonymous? Now **_**everyone**_** must have a lesson. First, it is true that O (negative) is regarded as the "universal" donor and AB is regarded as the "universal recipient". Pay attention, here: (1) I mentioned that about the O neg already; and (2) Charlie is AB ****negative****, which rarifies his blood considerably (less than 1 percent of the population). Also, the word "universal", in medical procedures, should probably not be engraved in stone. Although it is extremely rare, both anaphylactic and hemolytic shock are possible, here, and both are potentially fatal. My theory is that if anyone could pull a bad reaction out of the hat in this story, it would probably be Charlie (since I am, after all, a Charlie Whumper Extraordinaire). Now. Do us all a favor and show the courage of your convictions, if you must come after me.**

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When Megan finally found Alan, David and Amita in a surgical waiting area, she stood in the door uncertainly. Amita was sitting next to Alan, leaning her head on his shoulder in the crook of his arm, and appeared to be asleep. The portrait was somehow so intimate that Megan felt as if she were intruding and found herself looking away, toward David. He was pacing methodically from one end of the small room to the other, and was actually whispering the number of each step that he took aloud. She could hear him, even though his head was down and he was staring at the floor. She thought with a slight pang that she hoped she would get a chance to narc on him to Charlie, later. The professor would get a kick out of David staring at his feet, murmuring, "Two. Three. Four." She wasn't sure, considering the events of the entire day, that she should let David be part of this bust. She _was_ sure that if she didn't, she would be two partners down -- David would never speak to her again. There would be many agents from several agencies in on the arrest. Perhaps she would take the bullets out of David's gun before they got there... Megan pulled herself out of her thoughts and slowly entered the room, choosing a seat that faced Alan and Amita. She smiled at him bravely, then simply arched her eyebrows and waited for him to speak.

Alan didn't disappoint her. He spoke in hushed tones. He didn't want to awaken Amita, who was still woozy from the sedative and half-in-shock from all that had occurred. The last time she had blinked blearily awake, she had looked at him and promised to clean up the ice cream. Alan had no idea what she was talking about -- a dream, maybe. "Donnie's out of surgery," he said, trying to smile himself. "I haven't seen him yet, but they said in another hour or so. Everything went well; he's in recovery."

Megan relaxed a little and her smile became genuine. "Good. That's good news, Alan."

He nodded, sobering. "Charlie needs blood. Less than one percent of the population carries his blood type, and they're struggling to keep him strong enough to survive the surgery. Plus, he's developed a fever from an earlier 'universal' donation that turned out not to be so 'universal'."

Megan glanced down at her hands. "I can put out a call at the Bureau. It happens all the time -- someone in the family needs blood, and agents line up to donate, even in the middle of the night. I can let Millie and CalSci know, too, as well as the NSA, Coast Guard -- everyone who knows Charlie."

Alan brightened considerably, and immediately after looked guilty. "My heavens, I hadn't even thought to call Millie."

David had stopped pacing and was standing silently behind Megan, listening. It was making her slightly nervous. She shifted a little in the chair. "I can do that. I'll take care of that." Her eyes wandered to the still-sleeping Amita. "Is she okay?"

Alan tightened his grip around the girl as if the very question threatened to remove her. "It's a long story. She really needs her sleep, right now."

Megan decided not to push for further details and rose from the chair, standing at an angle so that she could look from Alan to David, at intervals. "We... Um... The man who caused all this is going down, tonight. I don't want to leave you alone here Alan, but David and I..."

David grunted like a predatory animal spying a wounded rabbit, and Alan looked up. "I understand. Apprehending this piece of shit..." When Megan started, Alan apologized. "Forgive me. I'll be fine here. If you'll call Millie for me, on your way to the arrest, I'm sure she'll come right over anyway." He tried to smile again, reassuringly. "When they let me see Donnie, I can tell them that you're taking care of things."

Megan nodded, businesslike. "Consider it done." Feeling a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger, she grabbed David's arm and started pulling him toward the door. "We'll be back."

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Colby sat on the low couch and thumbed rather glumly through the file folder, eventually tossing it onto the coffee table that separated him from Director Merrick. He avoided the man's eyes and stared instead at the fourth fingernail on his left hand. He had a hangnail, and it was bugging the hell out of him.

Merrick gave him a few seconds, then spoke with surprising sympathy and gentleness. "It's the only way, you know. When you decided to save Charlie Eppes, you became a traitor among traitors. We have apprehended nearly everyone in Tompkins' personal operative file, and we believe Charlie is no longer a target. But there is no way we can guarantee the safety of Colby Granger, in any country on this earth."

Colby looked up sharply. "What d'ya mean, 'almost' everyone? Charlie is not safe, yet?"

He started to rise from the couch and Merrick sat back in the Lazy Boy and held up both hands. "Relax. Relax. We're merely exhuming a body to confirm identity. One of Tompkins' most trusted and busy...employees...did us the favor of dying in an automobile accident several weeks ago. He was positively identified by his widow, his daughter and the M.E. This is really overkill -- if you'll pardon the expression -- but because the body was badly burned, we're just crossing our t's. Dotting our i's. We'll have confirmation by morning."

Colby settled back on the couch and his eyes flickered over the folder again. "So this guy is good?"

"Remarkable," Merrick assured him. "When he is done with you, you'll have a brand new set of prints and a complete stranger in the mirror. He specializes in this sort of thing, and his clinic is state-of-the-art. Of course, the first six months will be risky. While you recover there is slight chance of discovery. But very slight – this man has been in operation for nearly 14 years, and his medical facility has never been breached by hostiles."

"That's reassuring," Colby noted dryly. "If Tompkins knows about this guy, I might as well stick a gun in my mouth now."

To his surprise, Director Merrick reddened and raised a hand to pull his shirt collar away from his neck. "Government agencies do not always share their secrets with each other," he finally responded. "The NSA has never been privy to this particular resource."

Colby considered that, then sighed. "Still. I'd like the Whiz Kid to work up the odds on my making it through the next six months. Information has a way of leaking, I've learned."

Merrick didn't have a response to that, and Colby slowly heaved himself up and paced the few feet required to stand behind it. Crossing his arms over his chest, he spoke in a voice free of his usual sarcasm; a voice filled with regret and longing. "They have to always believe I'm dead. All of them? David?"

"Especially David," Merrick answered. "You know if he had the slightest bit of encouragement he would get himself killed pursuing this."

Colby sighed. "Can the doc do a lobotomy at the same time? So that I never remember…hell…most of my life would qualify for something I don't want to remember, I suppose. It's just the last two years…I'd rather not remember them because they were good. You know?"

The Director smiled slightly. "This is all…regrettable," he agreed, always the master of understatement. He tapped the folder Colby had dropped on the table. "Your journey will begin before daylight, You should study your new name, your new passport, the life we have created for you."

Colby grimaced, coming toward the table again. "Doesn't really matter, Without my team watching my back,,,it just doesn't matter who I am."

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When Alan was finally led to Don's room, Amita sent a message of cheer but prfererred to wait for news of Charlie, still in the OR. True to her word, Megan had found a way to activate some intricate blood donation system, and agents and officers from several different agencies were showing up, wearing short-sleeve shirts. Mille had stormed the waiting room to find Alan talking with a fire fighter, two LAPD marksmen and several agents from the Bureau who were checking on Don and Charlie. Amita, more awake now than she had been, still felt slighty cranky and hungover, "I anticipate solitude," she admitted, but Millie wouldn't let her have it. When Alan went to see Don, she stayed in the waiting area with Amita. "The technician says they have two matches already. Someone from the Coast Guard, and a student on file at the campus health center. When we called and told him if was for Dr. Eppes, he came right in. I'm sure we'll get more as the sun comes up…"

"The sun will never come up again," Amita announced, "not for me. The sun rises and sets in Charlie, and until they tell me he's better, it will never rise again."

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C


	17. Chapter 17

**Repercussions: 17**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer:**** I refer you, in my exhaustion, to any other chapter of this story.**

**A/N:**** Also, a public apology is hereby offered for the sarcasm that leaks into my A/Ns. It is true that I could disable Anonymous reviews, so the ultimate responsibility is mine. (Dang it — it always is.)**

**Add'l A/N Medical Disclaimer:**** The medical sections of this story reflect hardwon knowledge via formal education, experience and/or research. They have been simplified and masticated thoroughly to fit into a readable work of fiction, however. I encourage anyone who has recently been shot in the chest and/or stabbed with an antique chair splinter to seek professional intervention in a timely manner.**

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David pulled out his cell phone and helped Megan call in the troops for blood donations. Eventually there arrived a moment neither one of them was on the phone, and speeding through L.A. in Megan's car as if they had a destination. "What's up?", he finally asked. "Where are we going in such a damn hurry?"

Megan glanced quickly at him, then back to the road. "Adelson showed up at the Eppes house," she informed him. "He showed me what was on the DVD Colby sent you. It's Tompkins, David. Tompkins is bad, and Colby arranged for the proof to be sent to you."

David was silent for a moment. "Adelson knew this how?", he asked, at length.

"Apparently there are whole lot more layers to this Chinese spy thing than we ever knew about. I think it has something to do with his recent assignment in D.C." Her voice became bitter. "Whatever. It doesn't really matter anymore, anyway. They screwed it all up. Don and Charlie are hurt, and Colby's dead. I figured the least they owed us was for you and I to be in on the bust."

David turned his head so that he was looking out of the passenger window and she barely heard his response. "Granger was straight-up all the time? Tompkins was behind all this? He tricked him, somehow?"

Allowing the truth to truly encompass her soul for the first time, Megan could have sworn that in the silence of the car she could hear her own heart break. She gripped the steering wheel hard and swallowed tears down her throat. "This is for Colby," she promised thickly.

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If Alan had been anticipating a quiet bedside interlude waiting for his son to awaken, he was sadly mistaken.

When he entered Don's hospital room, he barely ducked a plastic molded emesis basin that was flying across the room, and Don's voice was anything but weak. "You let me out of this bed," he was demanding of the male nurse holding him down. "Keep that damn needle away from me and bring me AMA papers. I'm going to find my brother!"

Startled, Alan scurried across the room, calling out. "Don. Donnie. Stop, son, you've just had surgery!"

The male nurse looked pleadingly at Alan. "He's ripped out his IV and I can't even let go enough to reach the call button and get somebody else in here!"

Alan found something in the man's demeanor unpalatable. Plus, he wasn't happy to see him physically fighting with Don. He frowned and pushed on Don's shoulder with one finger. "You. Down." Then he looked pointedly at the nurse. "You. Get out. Send in someone else."

The nurse's face registered both shock and disbelief when Don actually stopped struggling and laid back, panting slightly, on the pillows. "But...", he started, and Alan was all over him. "I said get out. Leave now and you can send in another nurse. Wait thirty more seconds, and you can send in your supervisor." Don sneered at the hastily retreating back, and closed his eyes for a moment. He was so relieved he knew that if he was standing up, he would fall down. If his father was here, if his father could still talk, Charlie must still be alive. He let himself lie there for a moment, feeling his father's hand on his brow, listening to his father's quiet voice. "You just settle now, Don." His tone became gently reproachful. "Ripping out your IV, refusing medication. Causing all kinds of trouble. Tsk."

Don popped open his eyes and searched Alan's face. "I wanna see Charlie," he whined, letting weakness creep into his voice. He wished he was capable of that wounded puppy look that Charlie had been using on their Dad for the last thirty years, but he knew he couldn't pull it off. Instead, he winced slightly. It was easy, when he focused on the pain in his gut. What had happened down there, anyway? He felt as if he had swallowed a helium-filled balloon.

Alan immediately leaned over to kiss his forehead, and spoke softly as he straightened. "Charlie is still in surgery, son. But Megan found some blood donors somehow, and they tell me he's much stronger now than he was even half an hour ago. That's really all I know myself, right now." He reached down to touch Don's arm and was a little surprised when Don latched onto his hand with his own. Surprised, but not disappointed. Alan squeezed his eldest son's hand firmly and watched the war of emotions on his face. Don seemed angry one second, lost the next, and terrified the third.

He hovered for a while over that last one. He looked up at Alan with shining eyes that had seen too much. "He couldn't breathe," he confessed, his voice breaking a little. "I couldn't make him breathe. God, Dad...are you sure he's alive?"

For his son, Alan found a smile he did not feel, and injected his own voice with soothing authority. He placed his other hand on top of Don's, creating a father-son sandwich that intensified their connection. "Absolutely. Absolutely. Your brother will not leave us. Or that dark-haired beauty in the waiting room, either," he winked.

Don relaxed slightly, and the choice to believe was a deliberate one. If Charlie did not survive his surgery, there would be time then for desperation and heartache. As long as he was alive, Don decided that he would feel only love.

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Colby hadn't spoken in almost half-an-hour, and Merrick had almost drifted off in the Lazy Boy when his former agent made one last suggestion. "So if you can change everything, why not bring me back, in a year or so? No-one will know who I am...was... I'll have new prints, a new face, a new history." His voice took on a shade of hope. "It could work! I could work with the team again!"

Merrick sighed and smiled sadly. He leaned forward a little and leaned over, elbows on his knees. "Think about what you're asking. Think about what you said earlier, about information leaking. The risk would not just be to yourself. You would be risking their lives, as well. Is that what you really want?"

Colby's heart plummeted to his feet again. He let his head drop back on the couch and blinked hazily at the ceiling. God no, that's not what he wanted.

He would not cry. Since the first night in the orphanage, he had not cried. Not even under fire in Afghanistan, dug into a fox hole and feeling one of his buddies bleed to death in his arms before medics could reach them. Colby Granger did not cry. He blinked again, then slowly reached up a hand to brush away the single tear that was rolling down his cheek. _Oh, what the hell_, he thought. _I'm not Colby Granger anymore, anyway_.

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Robert Tompkins paced his office impatiently.

He was worried. The operatives transporting Granger to Leavenworth had not checked in. Nor had the no-less-than-three men he had sent to finish off Charlie Eppes. He had even cashed in a CD and ponied-up the extra money for Jacobsen, the most expensive resource on his list. The guy was known as "The Closer" for a reason, and Tompkins was counting on him to make sure the job got done. If things went as planned, Jacobsen wouldn't even fire a shot -- one or both of the other two would do his job. He glanced at his watch again, uneasy. Obviously, things were not going as planned.

He paced back to the other end of the room, grimacing as his ulcer broiled. This was not good. Charlie Eppes could not be allowed to live another day; he was too smart, too dangerous. Granger was too dangerous as well -- the "transport" to Leavenworth should have resulted in a fatal accident hours ago. If either one of them lived out the night, Tompkins had to implement his fail-safe plan. He crossed to the desk and perched on the edge of his chair, sliding out the top drawer. He was looking again at his false ID and abstractly feeling the sweet leather of the diplomatic passport when a sharp rap on the door drew his startled attention. What idiot would report to him here, in person? Everyone knew the rules! He started to stand when shouted words dropped him back into his chair.

"ROBERT TOMPKINS! This is the FBI! CIA! NSA! LAPD! WE HAVE A WARRANT FOR YOUR ARREST! THE BUILDING IS SURROUNDED! SURRENDER IMMEDIATELY!"

In mute terror, Tompkins saw the door handle turning. Knowing it was locked, he leaped from the chair, barely registering it when he banged his thigh hard on the open desk drawer. Rushing to the window, he pried apart two of the vertical blinds. The street below was indeed teeming with police cars and uniformed personnel. Tompkins recognized the sound of a battering ram splintering the solid door, and whirled again. He stood in a moment of indecision, then dove across the floor to the desk again. With a shaking hand, whispering, "No. No. No.", Robert Tompkins reached inside and withdrew a semi-automatic .45. The door splintered again and bowed inwards, and at first he raised the gun toward it, determined to take someone with him.

Then the scenario he had rehearsed for years kicked in, almost against his will. He would not give them the satisfaction -- any of them. Robert Tompkins played by his own set of rules.

As the door finally blew open, Robert Tompkins, the gun in his mouth and the barrel pointing up toward the top of his head, let his eyes rest on his wife's photograph one last time. When he squeezed the trigger, blood and brains sprayed the room, splattered his wife's face, and hit the bulletproof shields held up by the front line of the assault team.

"Son of a bitch!", yelled David, who was part of the second line. He pushed his way past two LAPD officers only to see a third crouching with his fingers at Tompkins' neck, on his carotid artery. The officer looked up, shook his head and stood, taking a squishy step away. David growled with frustration and kept moving until he was standing over Tompkins' body. Then, before anyone else could react, he emptied his service weapon into the bastard's chest.


	18. Chapter 18

**Repercussions: 18**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Ownership Disclaimer:**** My attorneys have prepared the following statement for release: The Artist Formally Known As FraidyCat asserts no claims of or aspersions toward ownership of any cast or crew member; creator; producer; director; writer; production company and/or distributor connected in any way or form with the television series most commonly known as "numb3rs".**

**Medical Disclaimer:**** The medical sections of this story reflect hardwon knowledge via formal education, experience and/or research. They have been simplified and masticated thoroughly to fit into a readable work of fiction, however. I encourage anyone who has recently been shot in the chest and/or stabbed with an antique chair splinter to seek professional intervention in a timely manner.**

**Fiction Disclaimer:**** This is "an invented story; a literary work with imaginary characters and events...not real, feigned" (© 1990 Webster's New Dictionary).**

**Blanket Disclaimer:**** I hereby deny any and all responsibility in every other area.**

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When Charlie's surgeon finally appeared in the small waiting area, Millie stood in a rush and offered to fetch Alan. "He's just one floor down; his other son was injured tonight as well, and they finally said he could see him..." She bustled past Amita, who was sitting silently, trying to ascertain from the tired doctor's face whether the news was good or bad.

He stopped Millie before she reached the door. "Wait... let's just all go. Mr. Eppes can come out into the hallway if he feels his other son is not well enough to hear."

"Oh, he will be," Millie smiled broadly, moving back to encourage Amita into an upright position and guide her toward the door. "And that's an excellent point. If that man is conscious and hears that there is news about Charlie, he'll probably take the stairs and beat Alan up here."

The surgeon smiled and allowed the women to exit first. "Then I should definitely go to them." When they were safely ensconced in an elevator and rapidly descending, he hid a yawn behind his hand. "Excuse me. Long night." He looked a little uncomfortable as the lift jolted into place and the doors slid open. "Ladies... um... you _are_ family, right? You understand -- privacy laws and all that."

Millie, clutching Amita's hand now, dragged her off the elevator and nodded vigorously at the doctor. "Oh, yes," she assured him. "Aunt Millie. Aunt Millie." She lifted Amita's hand as if she was a prizefighter just being declared the winner. "And Amita! My... that is, Charlie's..." Millie was trying to come up with something reasonable; something Alan might say if the doctor questioned him as well, and she just couldn't fathom either one of them claiming that Millie had a daughter.

While Millie searched her brain for the right answer, Amita spoke for the first time, eliminating the need -- and causing the surgeon to stagger a little in the hallway, almost veering into the wall. "I have sex with him," she offered, loudly enough that a nurse passing in the hall whipped her head around to stare. Amita heard the slight echo of her words and blushed, trying to think of something else significant. "And someone tried to rape me on his lawn? Ruined the ice cream." That wasn't any better. "We were going to use it in the shower," she concluded, desperately.

Millie looked at her with new appreciation, grunting under her breath. "Like father, like son." Her voice was low, and would have been inaudible if an uncomfortable silence hadn't descended after Amita's announcements.

The surgeon stopped walking suddenly, placing the heel of his hand against a door, and Millie realized they had arrived. Her cessation of movement was so abrupt that Amita slammed into her, pushing her sideways just enough so that she hit the doctor. All three off balance now, they tumbled through the swinging door. The surgeon barely kept them all on their feet by using the door for leverage. As they came flying through the door, the doctor's chart flew out of his hand and crashed onto the floor, the hard plastic shattering in a sound reminiscent of a gunshot. Don, who had just drifted off, jerked up in the bed with a scream of "Charlie!", and Alan, after glancing in a near-panic at the crowd suddenly in the room, rushed to hold him down.

"Well," sighed the surgeon, crouching to gather up the papers from the broken chart. "I guess we're just one big happy family, here."

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Considering that Tompkins' office was jammed with personnel from at least four different federal law enforcement agencies, as well as LAPD, it was remarkably quiet. A few eyes were on the floor, or wandering unfocused around the room, but most were glued on Director Merrick, who had been called to the scene. The FBI was running point on this entire operation, and right now every other agency was more than willing to let them have it.

Merrick roamed the perimeter of the office for a while, arms crossed over his chest, meeting unblinking gazes wherever he stopped. Finally he approached Tompkins' body, stopping just before he reached the blood-soaked carpet around it. He regarded Tompkins solemnly for a moment, then lifted his eyes to the LAPD Lieutenant standing closest. "So let me get this straight," Merrick started dryly. "He resisted arrest, and Agent Sinclair's shooting was justifiable."

The Lieutenant did not blink, and his voice did not waver. Rather, it was strong, authoritative. "That is correct, sir. Resisted. We all saw it."

Merrick didn't move, but again let his eyes roam the room. This time he stopped on an NSA agent. "You're telling me Tompkins brandished his weapon -- toward the assault team -- took, what? Six? -- slugs in the chest -- and then managed to commit suicide."

The agent didn't hesitate in his response. "Remarkable, sir. Never seen anything like it, and I've been in the field almost 20 years. I can only think that after the first round hit, he placed the gun in his mouth. It's possible the force of the additional hits convulsed his hand and caused his fingers to act reflexively."

"Umm-hmm," snorted Merrick after the speech. He rotated slightly in place until he locked eyes with Ben Adelson. Ah. A possible weak link, if there ever was one. "Assistant Director," he breathed. "Can you confirm?"

As expected, Adelson reddened slightly and began to stammer. "I...I was- was behind Sin, Sinclair, sir, and, and, and he's a bigger man than I am, sssssoooo..." There was a slight movement from behind Adelson, and Megan stepped up to stand next to him. She smiled pleasantly, reminding him, for some reason, of a shark about to rip its prey to shreds. His cheek stung as he remembered the vicious slap she had given him earlier in the car. Sure, he had more rank than she did and he could probably end up with her job. On the other hand, he would much, much rather have her on his side, when it was time to choose a new Director. He cleared his throat. "But, I, uh, I had no difficulty seeing that first part -- the gun waving in the air, Tompkins trying to take on the entire assault team. Yes, yes, I would say that Sinclair's actions were justified. As the Lieutenant said, we all saw it."

Merrick was a little surprised. Not really by anything else going on in the room as much as by the fact that Ben Adelson actually had a pair, after all. Eventually he rotated again to face David and the body. "Well. Well, then. With so many...stellar...witnesses, I don't see the need to waste any more time or money on this man. Simply transport the body; Assistant Director Adelson will direct you as to where, and he will stay with the body at all times. We're going to want a Z-14 on that, Ben."

Adelson swayed a little but managed not to stagger. Z-14. He had never even been sure that was real. Tompkins' body would never be autopsied; it would never even be seen again in its current form. By morning he would be burned to a crisp -- or actually, several crisps -- by an elite team at a top-secret Bureau facility he wasn't even sure how to find. The sealed orders for Z-14, as well as for a few other highly sensitive FBI operations, were in his personal safe, buried under his house. Somehow, he knew, Tompkins would eventually be located in a burned-out vehicle in the canyons outside L.A. Holy, holy, shit. "R..right," he finally squeaked out.

Merrick concentrated on David, who stared back at him impassively. "Agent Sinclair. You should come with me. I strongly suggested earlier today that you take some time off. Forgive me if I insist on driving you to the private airstrip myself, and placing you on a Bureau jet tonight."

_That_, at least, got a blink out of David; as well as a slight protest. "Jet? To where? I can't...I'm not..."

Merrick turned and started weaving for the door. "Tough shit, agent. Spend the next week shopping for a change of clothes, for all I care. You had your chance." He stopped, and turned slightly. "This. Is. An. Order."

David exchanged a long look with Megan. How could he leave now? What about Don, and Charlie? She touched the cell phone at her waist and David sighed. Great. She would call him. Damn it all anyway. Maybe Tompkins had the right idea.

He fumed all the way down the several flights of stairs, following the Director silently. He huffed furious, short breaths out his nose when they reached the street and he followed Merrick into the dark. It was difficult for him to concentrate on anything but his anger, but eventually David began to wonder where the hell his boss was going. Why hadn't his driver waited for him in front of the building? They were almost two blocks away and entering an alley before he balked. So much shit had gone down recently, he suddenly had very little trouble believing Merrick was going to kill him. "I ain't going in there," he protested, planting his feet. "If you're gonna do it, do it here."

Merrick whirled and David cursed himself for giving the man his weapon, earlier. Well, he would be damned if he would run. "Bring it on", he hissed, almost welcoming the end to his pain.

Merrick's voice drifted to him out of the dark, and the gentleness would have shocked David, if anything else could. "My God, Sinclair, you really _do_ need a vacation. The car is in the alley. It's near a light on the back of somebody's store, you can make it out if you look."

David peered over Merrick's shoulder, and sure enough, made out the outline of the dark sedan. "Why the hell did your driver park all the way out here?"

Merrick turned back around and started walking again, and David had a little trouble hearing his reply. "Do not make me sorry I did this, David," he said, reaching the front of the vehicle. "Get in the back."

David was further confused to see Merrick grab the passenger handle of the front seat. "You're riding with the driver?"

"Please." Merrick sounded oddly desperate, and David cautiously opened the back door and slid into the dark interior, sticking slightly to the leather. He and Merrick shut their doors at the same time, and the car lurched forward immediately. David tensed, sensing another body in the back with him. The sedan pulled out of the alley, and more light filtered into the car from the street. David turned his head to face his demon. His eyes widened, his mouth dropped open and his heart nearly burst from his chest.

Colby Granger leaned over and patted him on the knee. "Dude," he grinned. "Thanks for coming to see me off."

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	19. Chapter 19

**Repercussions: 19**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Consolidated, General Disclaimer:**** I am responsible for all things bad, and never did anything good. Not even once.**

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It was several five-syllable words later before Alan truly understood what was really important. Charlie was alive, and it looked like he was going to stay that way. The surgeon, of course, was "guardedly optimistic", a phrase that seemed mutually exclusive to Alan. He was proud of Millie when she loudly pointed that fact out. "Well? Which is it? Are you 'guarded', or are you 'optimistic'? Speak plainly, man!"

Alan, Don and Millie peppered the surgeon with many questions. They received more information than they wanted, or could process. All their questions were really designed to force the doctor to keep coming back to the part where Charlie was alive. Amita sat with a glazed expression through it all, and the surgeon kept glancing at her warily. Finally, when he was sure Alan was looking at him, he casually tilted his head toward Amita. "I'm sure this suggestion will meet with resistance, but you really should go home and get a few hours of rest. Charlie will be in recovery for several hours, and then ICU for at least a day. Visitation will be limited. As I mentioned, it's important that we be on the alert for possible complications; systemic air embolism, things like that." Then he tilted his head toward Don. "And while your eldest son is not my patient, I feel safe in my assessment that he needs his rest as well."

Alan had taken his first good look at Amita since she flew at him in the trauma bay, and now he made an executive decision. "Millie will take Amita home." Amita opened her mouth to protest and Alan shook his head. "You. Will. Go. Home. Sweetheart, you heard the doctor -- we can't see Charlie for several hours. Dear, you need to rest and recuperate a little yourself if you're going to be able to help him recover."

Amita's mouth clamped shut at that, and, unexpectedly, she burst into tears. It was several minutes before the young woman was successfully comforted by Alan and carted off by Millie. During the melee, the surgeon was paged. Assuring them it was another patient, he lit out of the room at a dead run. Eventually, Don and Alan found themselves alone.

Don tried to relax into the pillows and studied his father's face. It occurred to him for the first time that Alan shouldn't even be there -- he must have driven back to LA. in the middle of the night. The longest night in recorded history; the sky was just now beginning to lighten. The increased light in the room highlighted Alan's exhausted face, and Don frowned. "What about you? You heard the doc, yourself."

Alan sighed and shoved a slightly shaking hand in the pocket of his jeans. "I will not leave both of my sons here. I saw a nice little couch in a secluded waiting room just down the hall."

"Dad," Don protested.

The weak quality of his normally strong voice encouraged Alan to jump back in the conversation. "Rest, son. You rest. Your old man will never be far away."

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In his shock, David huffed in such a large gulp of air that he started choking. Colby leaned over to pound him on the back, but David pulled away. "Get the hell away from me," he ordered. "You're dead." In the glow of street lamps, Colby could see his face start to crumble, and David's voice began to waver. "I…my…my hands were in your blood. Cov- covered in your blood!"

Colby sat back a little, although he couldn't resist resting his hand on David's upper arm for a moment. "Yeah. About that. Things aren't always what they seem, ya know?"

David was torn between anger and mind-numbing relief. Since he had spent so much time in anger already that day, he opted to continue. "What the hell?"

Colby sighed and grinned apologetically. "Modern technology, dude. That's really all I can say." Suddenly his grin became broad and happy. "Man. I've missed you, Dave."

David blinked a few times and reached for the cell phone at his waist. "We have to call Megan," he said.

Before he had a chance to hit the speed dial, Granger's quick reflexes knocked the phone halfway across the back seat of the car. David looked at him in shock, and Colby shrugged. "Sorry. I had to cry like a little girl to get Merrick to give me _this_ much, man. I still don't think he would have gone for it if you hadn't turned into Rambo back there! He's afraid of losing a good agent; he's afraid you're spinning out of control."

David shook his head as if to clear cobwebs. "But…."

"We can't tell her," Colby almost whispered. "Or Don…." His face became worried and he raised his voice. "Tell me. Don? The Whiz Kid? Are they okay?"

There was enough light filtering into the car that he saw David's frown. "Don's lookin' good. Charlie is still is surgery. Alan is here – I don't know how the hell he got back here so soon."

Colby let his eyes wander to a place behind Colby's head. He nodded slightly. "If he's in surgery, he's still alive, right? So it could be worse."

David opened and closed his mouth a few times. "Right," he finally sighed. He could tell from the route the vehicle was taking that they really were headed for the private air strip where the Bureau kept its two jets. "We goin' somewhere?"

Colby met Merrick's eyes in the rear-view mirror, then looked back at David and shrugged. "Not 'we', man. Just me. I gotta leave, Dave."

David tensed a little, and looked at the back of the Director's head himself. "The Bureau is pulling you out somehow?"

Colby reached out and physically turned David's head until he was looking at him again. "Look, David, it's under control. Tompkins is down, and 'the proof is out there'. That guy on t.v. used to say that. The spooky guy."

"Mulder," David provided helpfully.

Colby grinned widely. "Yeah, yeah! 'The X-Files'. Dude, I so loved that show. I think that's when I started wanting to be in the F.B.I."

David would not be distracted. "Where are you going? How will they keep you safe? When will I see you again?" He interrupted his own questions to make a fierce and sudden statement. "I never believed it, Colby. Never – not even when you said it in the interrogation room."

Colby blinked and ran his hand over his face, but when it came away he was dry-eyed. "You know I can't give you details, David. I won't see you again – and you can never let on that I'm alive. I'm trusting you, here, with my life – because I know I can. I have for the last two years, and I always will."

David was nodding his head, and even though Colby had staved off tears, they were rolling down his own face and dropping off his chin. "Me, too," he managed.

Colby had begged for this, this moment with David, but he was beginning to discover that after everything, there were still new depths of pain to discover. He was relieved when the car turned off the highway onto the air strip approach road. Forcing himself to smile again, he thrust his hand out. "I shook your hand the day we met. Will you shake my hand good-bye?"

To his utter, utter surprise, David responded by sandwiching his hand in both of his own. "You're my brother, Granger," he said thickly, then cleared his throat. "My grandmother taught me that brothers don't say good-bye – they carry each other in their hearts. Forever."

Colby felt the solid warmth of David's hands around his own, and knew that he had always been right to want a brother. To envy Don and Charlie. For the first moment since the Janus List was decoded by the Whiz Kid, he felt true peace. It was okay, now. No matter who he had to be, the rest of his life, he would always know that somewhere – he had a brother.

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The first time Alan went into ICU to see Charlie, his heart constricted so painfully in his chest that he wondered if he was having a heart attack. They had tried to prepare him, of course, but the sight was still overwhelming. His baby was still on a ventilator, half his chest was swaddled in an acre of gauze, and below that Alan spied all manner of things sticking out of him. One tube was supposed to be for air, he knew, and another was a drain. A urinary catheter line sneaked out from under the sheets and disappeared into one of the bags that surrounded his son. Bags of blood. Bags of clear fluid, of varying sizes. Bags dumping things into him, and bags pulling things out, as if Charlie was just some sort of human recycling bin. Worst of all, the only color Alan could see was the dark stubble, darker halo of unruly curls on the stark white pillow – and bright red blood peeking through the gauze. Charlie's skin was almost translucent.

Alan glanced in fear at the nurse standing on the other side of the bed, and she smiled at him encouragingly. "It's all right," she said softly. "He'll be out for several more hours, and then we'll remove the ventilator. Things will be a lot less frightening, then." She motioned with her hands. "You can touch him," she offered.

Alan almost recoiled. He was not letting Don see Charlie like this. Thank God his own doctor was telling him he had to wait until his brother came out of ICU.

The nurse was speaking, again, and he almost missed it. "Go ahead," she said again, gently. "I think it'll make you feel better."

Alan looked at her uncertainly, and when she smiled again he cautiously approached the bedside. He looked for a moment at Charlie's forearm, but there were so many tubes, he was leery of knocking something loose. He finally settled on Charlie's forehead, above the ventilator, and he reached out to brush some errant curls out of the way. He visibly sagged when his fingers made contact with his son's skin.

Dear God, he was warm.

Charlie was alive.

Touching him, Alan felt that truth in his heart as he had not allowed himself to, yet. More of his flesh came into contact with the battered-but-solid flesh of his flesh, and Alan looked again at the nurse. This time, they were both smiling.

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**A/N: Well, as Colby would say, I had to cry like a little girl to write this chapter.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Repercussions: 20**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ****I deny and disavow legal claim. I repudiate (reject as unauthorized and having no binding force) any financial profit. This chapter reflects no personal knowledge or opinion of Cedars-Sinai, which I am sure is a stellar medical institution.**

**A/N: There was one last twist of soggy pasta clogging the drain of my kitchen sink…**

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When Bob Tompkins didn't make the expected 6 a.m. contact, Anthony Santino's hackles raised. Bob was a creature of discipline. He required it of his employees, and of himself. When they had last talked, in the park yesterday afternoon, Tompkins had slipped him a hefty packet of cash and assured him that it was almost over. Both Granger and Eppes were sure to go down that night. "I don't have my best man on it," Tompkins had laughed, slapping him on the back. "Had to settle for Numbers 2, 3 and 4, since you retired!"

Santino had smiled, recognizing from the heft of the bundle that Bob had slipped him another bonus. There would probably be more than enough for him to make sure his granddaughter's medical care was completely taken care of, and still live comfortably in the South of France for the rest of his life. Bob was a loyal man. A man true to his country. Anthony would truly miss him. He fingered the passport in his pocket as he spoke. "As my sweet Lexie would say, 'What About Bob?' You're getting a little long in the tooth yourself, fella."

Tompkins had laughed heartily, in a jovial mood. "Ahh, Lexie. I still think you've been taking a terrible risk, staying here. You should have gone to your villa straight away – you know Uncle Bob would have seen to Lexie."

He had smiled benignly and shrugged. "It is neither here nor there, as they say. The surgery is finished, and they are sure she will walk, when her recovery is complete. I will stay but a short time more. With your two problems disposed of, you can visit soon. We will empty my wine cellar and play 'remember when'!" Bob had heartily agreed, and they had soon parted.

But he had missed his 6 a.m. call. Neither had he made contact via the back-up plan, at 7.

So Robert Tompkins' all-time best and favorite employee had made a few discrete inquiries. Santino had discovered that while Granger was dead, Eppes still lived. He hovered in ICU at Cedars-Sinai, and that – that simply would not do.

For Bob, he would suspend his retirement.

For Bob, he returned to the safety deposit box he had never planned to visit again. By noon he had recovered what he would need. He was completed with his research by 3, and by 4, he was carefully and expertly crafting the badge that would ensure he was just another staff doctor. His IDs almost looked better than legitimate ones. Tompkins liberally praised his work, and had asked if he would still be available at least for that much, once he got to the villa.

While the ID 'cured' under the blacklight, he visited the uniform shop closest to Cedars, purchasing a white physician's jacket and scrubs. It was nearly 7 p.m. by the time he arrived home again, his new stethoscope lying beside him on the passenger seat. Bob had still not made contact, and Santino knew that this meant Tompkins was probably dead. It was with great sadness, and growing resolve to provide his old friend vengeance, that he lay down to rest.

He had set the alarm for midnight.

It seemed appropriate.

The dead of night.

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Millie had been reluctant to leave Amita alone at her apartment, but there was simply no way she could stay and also fulfill her duties at CalSci. Not with three of her professors off the clock. One was shot, one was a basket case, and one was probably drawing on a rock wall with a crayon. Thinking about Larry reminded her of Megan, who was no doubt at loose ends herself right now. So Millie left a message on her voice mail, asking her to check on Amita when she was able – it would give the dear girl something to do, something concrete; and while Millie and Megan were by no means best friends, the older woman did feel she knew the agent well enough to know how important 'being useful' could be to her. Especially when everything else in her life was out of her control.

It also occurred to her, as she waited for Amita to shower, forced her to eat a piece of dry toast and then tucked her into bed, that hanging out with Alan Eppes had definitely kicked her maternal side up a notch. Her life had been full to overflowing, and she had been blessed with many good friends along the way. She loved her work. She lived her work, and she had never experienced the 'biological clock' that other women found so powerful. She had never missed having children of her own. Her nieces and nephews were more than enough for her. Even they had always been geographically distant, birthdays marked on a calendar so that she would not forget to send a little gift. None of that had changed. Yet she found herself smoothing Amita's hair, soothing the girl to sleep, and wondered how the hell Alan had turned her into a Jewish mother in less than a year.

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All day long, Alan spent 45 minutes of every hour in Don's room. Then, he would walk for five minutes to the ICU, and spend the other 10 with Charlie. The nurse had been right – when he arrived around noon and found the ventilator gone, things looked less frightening. Charlie was less dwarfed by equipment. At the same time, Alan was bitterly disappointed that his son was asleep again by the time he got there. He desperately wanted a glimpse of those fathomless brown eyes. Besides, 40 of the minutes he spent with Don were spent trying to calm the older brother down when he had no real change to report. So he was worried his eldest son was not getting the rest he needed, either.

By 2, entirely too brief a time, Alan thought, considering what she had been through, Amita was back. She had brought her laptop, prepared to sit in the lounge and use something called 'WiFi' to do extensive research on each and every one of Charlie's injuries. Alan had seen that a few hours of sleep had returned a great deal of her spark and determination – and most of her lucidity, as far as he could tell. Those, at least, were good signs.

When he passed the lounge on the way back to Don's room and saw her set up in a corner with her laptop, Alan entered quickly and approached. "Sweetheart," he said quietly. "Should you be back so soon?"

Amita had jumped slightly, then recognized him and dazzled him with a smile. She arose and hugged him firmly, and Alan reveled in the squeeze. How he hoped that Charlie would learn a thing or two from this girl that had nothing to do with math. Things like how satisfying and comforting a well-timed hug could be. "I feel much better," she assured him when she finally pulled back. "Megan came by and fixed us some lunch, and then gave me a ride here. She's with Don, now."

Alan smiled. "That's nice. She's such a dear girl, I really don't know what Larry's thinking. I'm beginning to wonder how safe space travel really is."

Amita giggled. "We're talking about Larry, here, right?"

Alan shrugged. "I see your point. At any rate, I just hope he pulls himself together before she moves on." His smile faltered. "Amita, I'm sorry – I didn't know you were here. Charlie was awake, finally, and I'm afraid I used up the entire 10 minutes of visitation this hour."

A glow infused her face and Amita actually hopped. "He's awake?"

Alan smiled. "For the first time – at least during the visits I've been allowed. I was able to feed him some ice chips." He waggled a finger at her. "Now, I'm not saying that he's alert. He recognized me, but then he asked me to make sure he remembered to tie up the horse to the hitching post."

Amita giggled again, happily. "Really? Obviously getting some of the good stuff."

"Morphine," Alan agreed. "For which I thank the Good Lord, as long as it controls his pain." Alan had talked with Amita long enough to make a decision. "Sweetheart, I feel like I've been neglecting Don. Why don't you take the visit next hour. I'll stay withDon for a while. Can you believe the last time I went up there, they were actually making him walk down the hall?"

His voice rose in indignation and Amita placed a soothing hand on his arm. "I know it's difficult to believe, but that's good , Alan. Mobility will help him heal. I just read that on the Mayo Clinic website." Alan was shaking his head slightly when she leaned up to place a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you," she whispered. "For everything. I love you, Alan." Tears sprang to his eyes, and he latched on for another hug.

He hoped to heaven Charlie did something about keeping this one. And soon.

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The two spent the remainder of the day passing each other in the hall, trading off visits with Charlie and Don. Doctors were pleased with the progress of both, and everyone was thrilled to hear that Charlie might be moved out of ICU and into a regular room the next morning. "Mine, of course," Don had insisted, and Alan had smiled indulgently.

"That's what I'm lobbying for," he agreed. "I've only got so many miles left in these old legs."

Although he was thoroughly intending to spend another night in the hospital, his eldest son, Amita and even Megan had ganged up on him around 6. They were watching Don poke dispiritedly at his soft tray of hospital food and giving them dirty looks – the other three were eating some respectable-looking deli from the hospital cafeteria. When Alan started nodding off in his decaf, they insisted that he go home for a few hours of legitimate rest. Megan gained a nod of approval from her team leader when she wouldn't even let the older man drive himself home, but stood and declared emphatically that she was taking him there herself.

Amita walked them to the first floor, kissed Alan good-night, and returned to Don's room to find him asleep, as well. A mixture of exhaustion and relief had claimed the elder Eppes. Amita smiled at Don fondly for a moment, and then quietly picked up her trusty laptop and headed back for the ICU lounge.

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It was child's play, gaining admittance to the ICU. Santino toyed with the idea of waiting until Eppes was moved into the general population of the hospital, but in the end, he had a few reasons for his somewhat risky move. For one thing, he already had airline reservations for the next morning. Lexie's bill had been paid in full that afternoon. The sooner he was out of the country, the better. For another, Santino was a truly impatient man. It was his only downfall as an operative. He sometimes moved before he should. Luckily, he had also been blessed with remarkable instincts, and that had made the difference between a long successful career and prison. Finally – and this reason remained largely unacknowledged – he wanted to prove that he still had it in him. He wanted his last job to be a blaze of glory, requiring both guts and skill.

The ICU was a busy place, even in the middle of the night. It was easy to time his entrance through the double doors so that he was just a step behind a lab technician, and not required to scan his own fake ID. The young man had glanced at him, but had been completely fooled. Reading glasses perched on top of his balding head, clutching a patient chart that he had stolen from the ER, and studiously reading a non-functional pager, Santino looked every inch a doctor. It played into his hand that Cedars had such a large staff, and that many area physicians had privileges there but were not always seen on a regular basis.

He nodded briefly at the nurse sitting outside Charlie's small cubicle at the station. She smiled tiredly back, and inspiration struck. "I'll be with Dr. Eppes for a few minutes," he said, pausing in the doorway. "I'll be happy to stay long enough for you to visit the staff lounge and get some coffee."

Her eyes lit up. She scanned his fake ID as she stood. "Dr. Tompkins, is it? Thank you, I'd appreciate that. It's my first night back on. I never get enough sleep the day I come back."

Santino smiled; a genuine smile. His instincts were still on. He had chosen Tompkins for his ID in honor of Bob, and now he was sure that when the job was done, this stupid nurse would report Dr. Tompkins as the last person in the room. Even the idiotic FBI would figure out soon enough that it was a hit, and it was a hit of vengeance.

He clucked in sympathy. "Couldn't work the night shift on a regular basis, myself. I'm seeing patients for my partner this week – vacation. I'll be more than happy when he gets back and my days end at midnight again!"

She smiled once more and hurried past him in the corridor. "Thanks again! I'll just be a couple of minutes!"

Santino stepped into the room and regarded Eppes. This job was turning out to be so easy, he was almost sorry. The good doctor was sleeping.

He drew the curtain around the bed, so that passersby would have nothing to see through the glass observation window but his scrub-glad legs. He was almost gentle when he lifted Charlie's head off the pillow and slid it out from underneath the curls. He hadn't been planning on doing it this way, and for a moment he hesitated. It was never a good idea to deviate from the plan, and he had a syringe in his pocket that he could inject into the IV. It would take a few minutes to do the job, and the time would allow him to quietly leave the hospital, undetected. Yet, since he had been able to get rid of the cow who called herself a nurse, it didn't really matter if the alarm at the desk sounded. Eppes looked close enough to death already that this shouldn't take long. He could still escape. He would probably even have time to inject the drug anyway, for back-up.

And this was his last chance for a hands-on experience at the trade he had loved for the last 25 years.

Santino's decision made with that thought, he tenderly placed the pillow over Charlie's face.

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**A/N: Mwa ha ha ha ha….. That was difficult because I had to make Amita into a decent, relatively normal person. Someone with feelings. (Don't try this at home.)**


	21. Chapter 21

**Repercussions: Chapter 21 (the World's Longest Oneshot)**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer****: Whilst FraidyCat has taken every possible care in the compilation, preparation and presentation of the information published in this work of fiction, no liability whatsoever can be accepted for the contents or their accuracy. The materials in this heretofore mentioned work of fiction could include technical inaccuracies or typographical errors and are provided "as is" and without warranties of any kind either expressed or implied, to the fullest extent permissible pursuant to applicable law. FraidyCat does not warrant that the functions contained in the materials will be uninterrupted or error-free, or that defects will be corrected. FraidyCat does not warrant or make any representations regarding the use of or the results of the use of the plot twists in this work of fiction in terms of their correctness, accuracy, reliability, or otherwise. FraidyCat makes no commitment to update the materials on this site. nor does The Cat claim legal or imaginary credit for existing characters.**

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Amita had stayed awake until the 1 a.m. visit, which she found very disturbing. Charlie had been in obvious pain, mumbling something about 'the Stargate'. She had been unable to comfort him, and for the first time in several hours he had not been able to rise above it enough to even make eye contact with her, let alone speak to her. The visit had brought tears to her eyes, and she was almost weak with relief when a nurse came into the room when there was only one minute to go. The woman smiled kindly and stuck a needle in the IV port. "He's due for some morphine," she had whispered, and Amita sighed heavily.

"Thank God," she responded, clutching two of Charlie's fingers. The nurse had let her stay an extra few minutes while the drug took affect. When Amita left, she still wasn't happy, but the settling of her restless lover had calmed her down, at least. She briefly considered sneaking down to see Don, but quickly decided against it. He should be sleeping himself. Besides, the last thing she wanted to report to him was this last visit. Returning to a corner of the lounge, Amita passed another worried family member sleeping in a chair. While the man did not look particularly comfortable, the idea of closing her eyes for just a few minutes appealed to her, and Amita placed her laptop on the table in front of the chair where she had spent the better part of the afternoon, and sat down wearily.

Just for a few minutes.

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Don was restless. He had fallen into a deep sleep around the time his father left, and if anybody had come to see him since, they had let him sleep. Considering that was eight hours ago, he tried to reason, it was probably his own fault that he was now wide awake at 2 in the morning.

He nervously fingered the sheet and told himself that it had nothing to do with Charlie.

After just a few seconds, he gave up and turned on the light. Bringing a hand up to shield his eyes immediately, he blinked furiously for a moment and waited for the watering to stop and his vision to adjust. Finally he lowered his hand and groped for the unit that would allow him to call the nurse. He couldn't find it right away and couldn't be bothered trying very long. "Ah, the hell with it," he muttered, pushing painfully against the bed until he was in a sitting position. "Been walking all day anyway. I can do this." Don firmly gripped his IV stand and started to pull himself up, remembering to use his biceps and not his abdominals.

"Don't...ugh...need...umph..me...shit...no...woah...stinkin'...dammit...nurse...", he grunted, and when he had achieved an approximate 45-degree angle he began pushing the IV stand across the floor toward the bathroom. He was still gripping it with both hands, bent over like an old man over a walker, and his progress was excrutiatingly slow. Now that he was more or less upright, though, his breathing was easier. "Gonna piss on the damn floor before I get there," he informed the bag of saline.

His dire prediction proved false, however, and soon he experienced the blessed relief that only certain physical functions offer a man. He was even able to park the IV stand and let go for a while, so that he could...hold something else. His immediate need attended to, Don shuffled a slow circle in the bathroom and paused at the sink to wash his hands. While the warm water ran over them, he looked at himself desolately in the mirror and met his own worried eyes. He studied his lined face for a long time, and then began speaking to his own reflection. "I know," he admitted. "I feel it too. I feel... I feel Charlie. Like at the house, earlier."

On the way back to the bed, a trip that transpired with only one hand on the IV stand and in less that half the time it had taken him to get to the bathroom in the first place, Don decided he would look again for the remote. He was calling the nurse, and sending her to find out about his brother.

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Her nap was brief, Amita discovered when she awoke with a start and checked her watch. Still, she saw with dismay that she had missed the 2 a.m. window. It was 20 minutes after the hour, already. Briefly undecided, she looked at her still-sleeping lounge-mate, and then quietly picked up her laptop. She didn't intend to give up the 3 a.m. visit, but maybe the nurse would just let her look through the window for a minute. She patted the front pocket of her jeans, assuring herself that her keys were in there, and then clutched the laptop to her chest like a blanket, wrapping both arms around it. Careful not to make any noise, she ventured cautiously into the hall and toward Charlie's room.

She was surprised to see that the nurses' desk just outside of it was empty, and a little worried to look through the observation window and see that the curtain was drawn around Charlie's bed. They hadn't even done that in the daytime. Had he taken a turn for the worse? She gripped the laptop tighter, chewed on her bottom lip and waited for whoever was back there with Charlie to come out and talk to her. She could see a pair of legs standing near what she knew was the head of Charlie's bed. She didn't think it was the nurse. Much as Charlie's did, Amita's mind trapped details, and she remembered that the nurse was wearing a different color of scrubs when she saw her at 1. Besides, those were definitely men's shoes.

It wasn't finally registering the hard-soled and polished shoes as out of place that suddenly propelled Amita into the room. It was the fact that she could see shoes at all. Everyone in ICU was required to wear paper shoe coverings -- like the green ones on her own feet right now. They made her slip a little as she rushed around the end of the curtain. She put out one hand for balance in a gesture that was an odd copy of the extended arms that held a pillow over Charlie's face.

Santino looked up, shocked, as Amita careened around the corner. Where the hell had this come from? He released the pillow and took a step in her direction, wincing as she screamed at the top of her lungs. "MURDERRRRR! HELP!" The apparition continued to shriek and lunged away from his grasp. For the first time in his career, Santino had been caught unaware, and he was completely unprepared. Even a few weeks off had dulled his normal quick reactions. He should have just run before her screams brought someone. He realized that later. He shouldn't have bothered trying to grab her again to quickly break her neck. Instead, as he made another forward move toward her, she suddenly came at him as well, arms swinging the laptop as if it were a baseball bat. The hard case caught him over the eye and then shattered his cheekbone, and Santino opened his mouth to roar. Instead, several teeth popped out as the woman completed her follow-thru. Santino staggered to his knees as the curtain was whipped back, revealing a hospital security guard and at least two nurses, including the one he had sent for coffee. The guard and a large male nurse pushed down on his shoulders and back until he was prone on the floor, while the other nurse hurried to Charlie's bed. That left no-one to control Amita, who kept screaming, kicked at him twice and finally bent over to crash the laptop onto his head.

Santino would not remember much, after that, for quite some time.

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Alan was back at the hospital by 3:15, having been brought out of a sound sleep by a phone call from a nurse. God, how he hated phone calls from the hospital. They were never good -- especially at 2:30 in the morning. He had rushed from the house, still pulling on his shoes, only to remember that Megan had driven him home. Loathe to wait for a cab, he rushed back in and grabbed the first set of keys he saw on the neat set of hooks next to the kitchen door. They happened to be for Charlie's car. On the interminable trip, he wondered if Don knew that there was some problem with Charlie. Would they wake him up and tell him? They had said it was a 'security breach', whatever the hell that meant. If hospital security had let something happen to Charlie somehow, God help them all when Don found out.

Alan was disheartened to find parking at the hospital as impossible as ever at 3 in the morning. The shuttle ran 24-hours-a-day between the parking garages and the hospital proper, and he managed to spare a sympathetic thought for the others riding with him. Most nights of his life, he snored away, and it never occurred to him that all over the city -- every day, and every night -- phone calls like the one he had received changed people's lives forever.

A hospital security employee was waiting for him in the lobby, and Alan's thoughts came crashing back to his own problems. This could not, simply could not, be a good sign. Despite the almost reverent hush of night in the hospital, Alan protested mightily when the guard began to lead him in a direction that was not the ICU. "Whatever your security issue is, let me deal with that later. I need to see my son." The guard kept walking and murmured something Alan could not hear clearly, so the oldest Eppes planted his feet shoulder-width apart on the linoleum and raised his voice. _"I will stand here and bellow like a bull elk in heat until you take me to my son!" _He opened his mouth to make good on his promise, but let it gape open as Megan materialized before him. His eyes widened. "Megan? This is an F.B.I.-level security problem? They won't let me see Charlie!"

She smiled grimly and grabbed his upper arm, dragging him to the side of the hallway. Then she placed both hands on his face. "Charlie is fine. Charlie slept through the whole thing. I made them call you anyway because I knew you'd kill us all if you came back tomorrow -- well, later today -- and heard about this. Besides, I'm hoping you can help me calm down Amita."

Alan sagged in relief and she dropped her hands, which he immediately grabbed with his own. "Charlie's all right? Slept through what? And why is Amita still here, anyway? Why is she upset?"

Megan grinned more genuinely at the rapid-fire questions. To Alan's surprise, she winked. "Well. Seems this is the first time she's beaten-up a hit man."

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The nurse he had dispatched had not come back with an update about his brother, and Don had passed worried half-an-hour ago. He had used the intercom to order another nurse to get information after the first wasn't fast enough, and then he had actually staggered down the hallway with his IV stand to the desk to demand action. All he got for his trouble was the threat of a sedative and a wheelchair ride back to his room. Don had rested for a few minutes, and decided that this time he would go the opposite way down the hall, and breach the ICU himself. It would be a long trip, and he was dangling his legs off the side of the bed considering using the wheelchair when his door swung open, admitting his father, Megan, and a pissed-off-looking Amita. Don hadn't seen her look like that since Charlie forgot her birthday. As the thought ran through his mind, the blood froze in his veins and he almost slipped off the edge of the bed into a puddle of misery on the floor. 4 a.m. was not included in normal visiting hours. If they were all here, Charlie must be dead. "Oh, God," he moaned, clutching his arms around his stomach. "Please. Please. Please."

Alan pushed ahead of the women and scurried across the room. Gently he embraced his son and held his head against his chest. He could feel tears soaking into his shirt and felt horrible. They had thought Don would be asleep, so they had not taken enough care coming in. "Hush, Donnie, hush. Charlie's fine. He's fine. I just came from ICU and saw for myself. The nurses said you were upset earlier, so they let me come in as long as I was here. Take it easy, son, take a breath. He's fine. He's fine."

Don groaned and tilted his head back a little, searching his father's eyes for truth. "You sure?"

Alan smiled and rubbed soothing circles on his back. "Yes. Yes, son. Now. Since you're awake anyway, lie back and put your feet up." He turned slightly and used his other hand to indicate Amita. "I believe The Terminator here has a little bedtime story for you."


	22. Chapter 22

**Repercussions: Chapter 22**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer****: Yes. I mean, No.**

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He was pale, and he was still, and he scared the absolute hell out of Don.

For all of his desperation to see Charlie over the last 24 hours, Don was chagrined to discover now that he did not want to be alone with him.

He swallowed thickly, warily watching nurses and technicians tether his newly-delivered brother to the wall with an oxygen canula. The IV and a small monitor were artfully arranged, and parts of his body were moved into various positions as if they were some sort of molding clay. "You're staying for a while, right?" Don asked his father lowly, feeling more than a little foolish to be reacting this way.

Alan was standing beside Don's bed, giving them room to work, and he diverted his attention from Charlie to Don. He was a little surprised at the tone of his voice -- not to mention the shade of his skin -- and he looked back at Charlie to see if he had missed something. Amita was hovering at the foot of Charlie's bed, making helpful suggestions. "I think you should uncover his left foot, a little. At least loosen the sheet at the end of the bed. He always sleeps with his left foot in the air -- he hates feeling trapped."

Alan almost smiled, remembering Charlie as a 3-year-old, his little foot sticking out of the bed no matter how often he and Margaret snuck in and covered him up -- but then he remembered what he was doing, and answered Don instead. "Well of course we're staying for a while. That was the entire point of bringing him to this room, wasn't it?" He frowned, looking at Don's pallor again. "What's wrong? Aren't you feeling well?"

Don actually shuddered a little, and Alan started to get really worried. "He just...I don't...are they sure he's well enough to come out of ICU?"

Ah. That was it. Alan reminded himself that Don had not yet seen Charlie, and while he looked a helluva lot better to Alan, all this must be overwhelming to Don. Alan sat down carefully on the bed, and waited until his eldest was looking at him. The fear in Don's eyes made Alan reach out and run a hand over his cheek. "They wouldn't move him if he wasn't up to it, Don. Do you honestly think I would let them? I know it's all…a bit much to take in. You need a shave."

Don smiled weakly and his eyes strayed back to his brother. "How can he not even wake up during all of this?"

Alan's eyes followed Don's. "They timed the move for right after a dose of morphine." His eyes flickered at Don, who still looked worried, and Alan tried to lighten the mood. "You'll get quite a kick out of his morphine reality, Donnie. I understand he tried to go through 'the Stargate' last night. Earlier this morning he insisted that I plant one peanut under your mother's peach rose bush. You know the one, behind the garage?"

Don's smile was more genuine this time, and fondness began to replace fear as his eyes stayed glued to Charlie. "One peanut? Why?"

"I'm hoping to find out next time he wakes up," Alan answered. "I hope it's not some trade secret Margaret taught him."

Don sighed and looked back to his father. "How long will they give him morphine?"

Alan intentionally misinterpreted the question, determined not to give Don anything potentially disturbing to dwell on. "They're setting up a self-administration pump over there, so they're hoping he can control it himself by the end of the day. You know your brother -- stubborn as a mule. You'll have to encourage him. If he keeps the pain under control, he'll heel faster." The use of the word 'pain' made Don flinch, and Alan clamped his mouth shut.

An orderly and a nurse narrowly avoided a collision at Charlie's bedside, and the orderly quickly sidestepped, jostling the bed. Charlie murmured, and his head moved on the pillow. "S," he mumbled, and everyone held their breath, waiting to see if he would awaken. "Displacement equals initial velocity and time, plus..." He snored once, more of a snort, and Alan covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. Suddenly Charlie's eyes popped open wide, and his gaze fell on Amita at the foot of the bed. He smiled broadly. "Plus one-half the accelerated time," he finished.

Amita smiled back. "Greater than two," she supplied.

Charlie's head moved in something that might have been a nod, and his eyes drifted closed again. Alan looked at Don and arched an eyebrow. "I think they're both feeling better. They're talking in math again."

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After Don's afternoon walk, he insisted in sitting in the large chair next to Charlie's bed. His doctor was talking about releasing him tomorrow or the next day, which Alan had been processing with equal parts joy and terror, and the nurse said he could sit up as long as he wanted. Alan sat on the end of Don's empty bed and glared at a crossword puzzle book he had picked up in the gift shop. He couldn't get used to today's brief hospital stays, and he struggled to believe that Don was really well enough to go home. He would chew on that for a while, and then worry that whenever he was released, Don should not be home alone. Alan wondered how he was going to be with him and also at the hospital with Charlie. At one point Alan decided that he definitely would put his foot down when it came to Don returning to his apartment; he would come to stay at the house for a while. That thought made him remember that the dining room flooring needed to be refinished or replaced, and the sooner the better. He had almost had a heart attack the other night when Megan had taken him home – and she had even thought to warn him, first.

A shadow fell over the book – which was upside-down – and Alan looked up to see Amita smile at him. "He fell asleep," she whispered, and he looked over to see that Don's head was lolling on his chest. To him, that was further proof that Don should not be up at all, and he frowned slightly.

Amita had noticed that the puzzle book was upside-down, and now she saw the frown. "What's wrong?", she asked lowly.

Alan sighed and looked back at her. "Will you go to the sunroom with me for a few moments? I want to talk to you about interior decorating."

The young woman regarded him solemnly, wondering if he had hit his head at some point and she hadn't noticed. "What?", she finally asked.

Alan started to stand. "I need help making some phone calls. I want to hire a nurse for Don, and find someone who will work all night on the dining room, and maybe get ahold of Megan and ask her to bring me some things from Don's apartment, and…."

Amita smiled again and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Alan, Alan, calm down!" She glanced again at the sleeping brothers. "Come on. We'll let the nurse know where we are so she can come and get us if they wake up."

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Charlie woke abruptly, as he had developed the habit of doing over the last two days. It was as if his body was set like an alarm clock, and went off decisively and completely. Unfortunately, it was set for the wrong time. He always woke up an hour before it was time for more morphine. Even more disconcerting, the only people around were usually hospital employees. Eventually he had come to understand that he was in the ICU and visitation was limited, but his first few minutes awake were always full of desolation and longing, with an undercurrent of pain.

This time, as he blinked hazily and looked around for one of the ever-present nurses, hoping for a sip of water, it did not take him long to discover he was in a different place. He could see actual solid walls, instead of glass, and as his eyes roamed in a cirlcle around the room he saw a slice of light that was probably coming from a window. Then, a solid door, as opposed to the always-open doorway to his ICU cubicle. Finally, with a jolt of awareness and a leap of his heart that actually made his chest throb, Charlie recognized his brother.

Alan and Amita, doctors and nurses, umpteen people had assured him that Don was alive and recuperating a few floors away. Yet the mixture of morphine, latent fear and distress and the lack of visual proof had left Charlie unable to completely believe it was true. Now, watching Don's head loll on his chest, instant tears sprang to Charlie's eyes. He carefully and lethargically raised his left hand – which he just noticed was free of one of the IV lines that had previously been attached to both arms, giving him the appearance of a marionette at rest – and managed to brush a few away. Most of them ran down into his ears, which oddly both tickled and was annoying, and he grunted softly.

It was hardly audible – but it was enough to wake Don. His head shot up and wide, clear, concerned eyes sought out Charlie's. "Buddy?" His own voice was barely a whisper, and Don cleared his throat to try again. "Charlie." That was louder, but he found that he had nothing else to say. So he repeated himself. "Charlie." This time his voice wavered, but Don didn't care.

A corner of Charlie's mouth turned up, although Don didn't even notice, as he was unable to look away from Charlie's eyes. "Hey," the youngest Eppes rasped, before he, too, found himself out of vocabulary. "Hey."

The two looked at each other silently for over a minute before Don finally registered the moisture in Charlie's eyes and broke the silence. He strugged to lean forward in the chair. "Are you in pain? What do you need?"

This time Charlie's smile was broad, and Don saw it. "I need to see you," he answered. "God, I've missed you. I was so…I didn't think I'd….. It's good to see you." Fresh tears were rolling toward his ears again, and Charlie squeezed his eyes shut. He had intended for it to be more of a blink, but when he felt the back of Don's fingers on his face, capturing his tears, it made him cry harder and he leaned into the touch and focused on the voice of his brother. It was low, and gentle, yet powerful enough to hear over the various whirs and clicks of the hospital machinery surrounding the bed.

"Shhhh, Charlie. Take it easy, Buddy. I'm here. You're here. It's okay, now." Don's hand left his face and Charlie, bereft of the touch, opened his eyes again just in time to see a straw come at his mouth. "Take a sip of water," Don commanded, ever the Team Leader. Charlie complied, suddenly remembering that's why he had woken up in the first place, and made a sound of mild protest when the straw disappeared too soon. "Not too much," Don grinned. "More later."

Charlie's chest was starting to get that elephant-sitting-on-top-of-me feeling again, and he tried hard not to grimace. Looking back at Don, he remembered everything. He had remembered most of it already, but each time he woke up a little more came back. He tried to distract them both from his obvious discomfort. "Last time I…saw you…you were wearing one of Dad's antiques."

Don snickered. "Yeah. Not a matched set, anymore. Think he'll take it out of my allowance?"

Charlie huffed into the oxygen canula, trying not to approximate laughter in any form. Still, his chest exploded in pain and he bit back a groan and closed his eyes.

He heard movement in Don's chair. "Sorry, Buddy, I'm sorry. Let me call the nurse and get you something…."

Charlie opened his eyes again quickly and shook his head. "Wait. Wait. Knocks me out. Wanna know first. You ok?"

Don blinked furiously and looked away for a second, then returned suspiciously bright eyes to Charlie. "Geez, Chuck. I'm fine, don't worry about me. I'm only sticking around this place waiting for you to wake up, ya know?"

Charlie tried to determine from Don's face and posture if that was correct, and just how healthy his brother really was. While he made his judgments, another thought occurred to him, and his eyes opened a little wider. He found himself staring at Don's chin, unwilling to look into his eyes. "Colby. Is what he told us about Tompkins true?"

Don remained silent for so long that Charlie reluctantly raised his eyes again. He couldn't read everything he saw in Don's. Anger? Sadness? Disgust? "Yes," the older man finally answered briefly. "We can discuss those details later."

Charlie pushed, desperate to know. He didn't want to upset Don, but these men were both friends of his. At least, at one point, he had believed that. "But…so…if Colby had proof, then he'll be all-right now, at least…."

Intellectually, Charlie knew that the heart was just a biological organ that lived in the chest cavity, and it did not really feel emotion. As a younger man, right after his break-up with Susan, he had actually tried to work out an equation that would explain why intense emotion always seemed to come from and settle in the region of the heart; rather than the head, where everybody's control central truly resided. Now, studying Don's face, he felt the familiar thud in his chest. "What?", he whispered, afraid of the answer.

Don was afraid to give it to him, as well. Charlie needed more drugs, more sleep, and less…reality. He knew his little brother as well as anybody did, though, and he knew that Charlie would worry this like a dog with a bone. It would start to affect how well the drugs worked, and his quality of rest. He would let this slow down his recovery – which was going to be damn slow anyway. So he sighed, brushed a hand over his head and then dropped it to lay on top of Charlie's. "Colby didn't make it. But he went out a hero, man. He went out saving all of our lives, Charlie, and he took that risk willingly." Don's voice clogged with tears. "It doesn't matter what history says. The people Colby cared about? The ones he loved enough to die for? We'll always know. We'll always know, Charlie."

Charlie couldn't stop the sob that tore from his throat and blinded him with a pain both physical and emotional – and full of guilt. He grabbed Don's hand with his own and squeezed, and felt guilty that Colby had died because of him. He pressed his other hand over his heart, trying to calm its beating, and felt guilty because he was happy. He was happy it had not been Don, and he owed Colby more for that gift than he did for his own life.


	23. Chapter 23

**Repercussions: Chapter 23**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer****: Maybe. Probably not.**

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_**EPILOGUE**_

The day Don was released from the hospital, Megan had apologized all over herself to Alan for not being available to help him more – and then she had driven to the caves. Larry was incommunicado, and she had not been able to reach him since the incident. Arrangements to lodge in these caves had to be done through the mail – there was no-one anywhere actually answering a phone. Thank God he had at least told her exactly where he was going.

When she found him at the communal campfire, blinking owlishly in the sunlight as if he had not seen it for days, the first thing she did was stride up to him and slap him. Hard. Twice. Then she spun around and started to leave without saying a word. She had almost made her escape when a force beyond herself made her pivot again. He was right behind her. His mouth was open and he was talking, but she couldn't hear a thing. Instead, she leaned over and kissed him, shoving her tongue inside that mouth and tasting smoke from the campfire.

In the end, it had taken a few days to get back to L.A.

When they did, they went straight to the hospital, and up to Charlie's room. Alan was in full father mode when they quietly entered. "You were only released two days ago, son, and you're trying to do too much! You should be home resting. As soon as Amita gets here, you and I are going home!"

Don was sitting in chair near Charlie's bed, his father standing over him, and he looked up in protest. "Dad, I swear, I was not 'grimacing'. It was a smile. David was telling us…."

Megan had heard enough and made her presence known. "David's back?", she asked, entering the room further and looking around.

Alan whipped around and saw her, breaking into a grin and stretching out his arms to greet her as a daughter. "Megan! Come here, sweetheart! Help me talk some sense into this ox!"

Don groaned and Megan laughed into Alan's shoulder. "Good luck with that one," she said dryly, winking at Don as she pulled back. She wondered suddenly where Larry was, and turned back to the door. "I brought someone…"

Larry stood transfixed just inside the door, distraught eyes on Charlie. His friend had been in the hospital just shy of a week, and had yet to take a step. Charlie had been relieved – in more ways than one – to lose the catheter earlier that morning, although he was still recuperating from the exhausting and painful transfers that resulted. He was transported to the bathroom today in a wheelchair, but the therapists and nurses were making ominous noises about requiring his own legs to hold him up as soon as the next day. Frankly, wan and tired and silent in the bed, he was terrified. He was not sure his legs would ever hold him again. When David had unexpectedly shown up, relaxed and full of stories about airline food and turbulence, Charlie had welcomed the distraction.

Two surprises in rapid succession proved to be a bit much, though, and now he just blinked back at Larry. An awkward silence fell over the room. "Oh, Charles," the physicist finally said, finally approaching the bed with small tentative steps. "Oh, Charles. I was such an ass, to render myself unattainable. I so regret that I have not been here to assist, and provide Alan some additional resources. Please, old friend. Please forgive me."

A look of confusion crossed Charlie's face, and he glanced at Don, who was watching his brother for a reaction. "What is it?", he asked now, softly.

Charlie shook his head, slightly. "It's just… 'ass'…that's only one syllable."

Don snorted out a laugh. "I guess he really is upset, then," he teased.

Charlie smiled and looked back at Larry. "So you're back on terra firma now? All of you?"

Larry tugged at an ear. "As much as I ever was, Charles. I understand now that I had it backwards. Leaving my friends and loved ones and seeking seclusion never offered me the symbiosis I sought. Our salvation lies in each other."

Megan sidled up behind him and gently pulled his hand from his ear. It did not go unnoticed by anyone when she continued to hold that hand with her own. She looked questioningly at Alan. "David's here?", she repeated.

"After some decent coffee," he explained, and as if in proof the door swung open again.

"Ran into someone in the hall," came David's voice, quickly followed by "Megan!"

Amita pushed past him, shoving a coffee cup at Alan and flying at Megan and Larry. "Oh! You're both back!" she cried, hugging them each in turn.

Alan smiled indulgently and took a sip of coffee, but as the decibel level in the room rose he set it down carefully on Charlie's bedside table and cleared his throat. "Now, now…everybody's loved, and welcomed. Just not all at once." He glanced at Charlie, and saw a gray pallor of pain creeping onto his face. He offered a hand to Don. "Come. We need to get you home, and Charlie needs his rest." He sincerely hoped most of the others would take the hint and leave, and he was a little surprised when Amita was the one who protested.

"Wait, please," she begged, disengaging herself from Larry and heading for Charlie's bed. She crossed the space rapidly and leaned over to kiss him deeply, doing most of the work herself, since he was obviously fading fast. As she was straightening she held his eyes and spoke. "I talked with Millie," she assured him. "She agreed that it's a great idea, and she'll get started setting things up right away."

Much as he wanted the room cleared, Alan was intrigued. "Charlie?", he asked, curious.

Charlie looked a little nervously at David, then almost pleadingly at Don. "I want…that is…I'd like…"

Don frowned a little, getting concerned. "What, Chuck?"

Charlie took a deeper breath than normal and winced, latching onto Amita's hand. "For Colby," he finally said, not looking at anyone. "I want everyone in this room to know this is in honor of Colby. Amita suggested that we not use his name, because it will invite bad publicity every time a scholarship is awarded. Is that okay?"

Don glanced up at his father and then leaned a little closer to the bed. "What are you talking about, Charlie?"

Amita squeezed his hand and took over for him. "Charlie contacted his investment counselor", she started proudly. "He's cashing in a few CDs and starting an endowed scholarship fund at CalSci for students interested in forensic mathematics. We thought maybe if we named it 'The Whiz Kid Foundation', we could acknowledge Colby without subjecting his name to more bad press."

The only immediate reaction was a complete freezing of time and sound, and Charlie spoke worriedly. "Is that all right? I don't want to insult anyone...least of all Colby. I was hoping you would all serve on the advisory committee to set up the guidelines, initially."

Amita nodded and let go of Charlie's hand so that she could run her own through his hair in a gesture of comfort. She could hear the distress in his voice. "Of course," she cut in, a little too loudly and defensively. "And later, on the selection committee that chooses scholarship recipients."

Charlie looked up at her, grateful for her presence, but seeking to reassure her. " 'Mita, I'm all right," he said softly. "I'm not going to fall apart if they think this is a bad idea, honey."

Alan finally murmured a protest, the first one to break the spell. He smiled at Charlie, letting one hand rest on Don's shoulder. "Well, I, for one, think it's a lovely idea, Charlie. I know I'm not part of the Bureau..."

"...but you're family," interrupted Megan. "This is a family decision, and your opinion is always welcome, Alan." She clasped Larry's hand a little harder, and pushed the next words around a lump in her throat. "I think it's a marvelous idea. Forensic mathematics -- like what you do for us?"

"More or less, dear," Larry answered. "Charles certainly takes that specialty beyond its usual parameters. It might be more accurate to think of one your in-house experts." He looked at his friend with respect. "It's a fine thought, Charles."

Charlie couldn't stand it anymore and looked directly at David -- he was virtually terrified by his brother's silence, so he left him for last. "David? Please don't feel you have to agree with everyone. You were Colby's partner, and you knew him better than anybody. I know he respected your opinion, and trusted you -- you're the one he sent the information about Tompkins!"

David was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his own cup of coffee clutched in one hand. His pose was relaxed, and the smile he flashed Charlie was genuine. "Charlie, I thought it was a great idea the second I heard it -- I just wanted to let someone else speak, first. Colby...Colby would love this." He chortled a little. "I know he thought a lot of you, Charlie --- eventually. He liked to tease you, but he really respected your work, man."

Amita had relaxed a little and grabbed Charlie's hand again, but while others voiced agreement with David she sensed Charlie turning his head toward Don, and she tensed up again. So help her God, she liked Don, but if he said something to break Charlie's heart right now she might have to take a laptop to him.

Don looked silently back at Charlie as he slowly stood. His face was impassive, impossible to read. "Dad's right," he finally said, "you need your rest and there are far too many of us here."

Charlie actually groaned and closed his eyes, and Amita started looking around for something she could throw. No comment at all would have been better than Don pretending the question had never been asked! She was still fuming when he surprised her by taking a step closer to the bed and leaning over as far as his own injury would let him. He placed one hand on each side of Charlie's face, tightening his grip a little when Charlie opened his eyes and started to see him so close. "Buddy," Don said quietly, still audible to everyone in the hush of the room, "you are the most incredible man I know. I would be proud to serve on the committee. Whiz Kid Foundation is the perfect name; and this is the perfect tribute. Thank-you. Thank-you."

Charlie's eyes moistened as Don slowly straightened back up, and Alan draped an arm over his eldest son's shoulders and squeezed gently. "I'm proud of you both," he informed them matter-of-factly. "Always have been." He cleared his own throat and surveyed the room around him. "Another broiler out there today," he noted happily, changing the subject. "Who wants ice cream?" Charlie and Amita both reddened furiously and choked simultaneously, and Alan tossed them an evil wink as he herded the rest of the visitors out of the room. "My treat. Anything but mint chocolate chip."

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FINIS

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**A/N: Yes, it's sad -- but console yourselves. This is my first 23-chapter "oneshot". Anyhoo, I have read rumors that the true ownership of "numb3rs" has spies who keep up on fanfic to see what fans are really wanting to see. In this case, I hope that the rumormill is correct. So far, I have received almost twice my "normal" amount of reviews on this story -- and less than one-in-100 people review, looking at the "hits" in my stats. Even disallowing the odd little people who have nothing better to do than harass me, the reviews have also been unique in their length and seeming investment in the story. (Aside: Constructive criticism is ****not**** a 'harassment'; it is a challenge. For instance, I now know that bull elks do not go into heat -- they respond to a "cow" elk in heat. This type of information will be useful in the future.) I believe that this story hit a sensitive chord out there -- if you are a spy, pay attention: People want some closure on the whole Colby issue, and most people want him to go out a hero in some way. We demand satisfaction.**


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